LETTER CLXXX.

I SET off in Thurſday's Stage, the 25th Inſtant; and beg you will get ſome Lodging for me.

I received a Letter from you on Saturday laſt, and another this Day: And, firſt, of the firſt. I am very glad you got ſafe to Town: But why all this Plaintiveneſs? Why will you eternally doubt my Tenderneſs for [2] you? Obſerve, that there is a childiſh, and a manly one: Perhaps I am a Child in every thing elſe; and then one may ſuſpect, if I do not appear ſo in this, it is becauſe I want the Feeling: But if you will allow me to be a Man in other Things, why will you not judge of me all together? If my Letters and Behaviour differ, it is becauſe one proceeds from the Senti⯑ments I have toward you, and the other from a certain Nonchalance, or Want of Earneſtneſs in my Manners, which has been often miſ⯑interpreted.

What you ſay with regard to Love and Friendſhip is certainly juſt, as it is ingenious alſo. The Pleaſures of thoſe Affections are the greateſt Enjoyments of Life: How careful ought we then to be to cheriſh them in their proper Seaſon! which does not extend even ſo far as you mention: And yet we have a long Life to labour through after that Aera, which would lag heavily along without thoſe Helps.

The Opinion of a continued Converſe after Death has been often diſputed, and by me too: But I will come over to your Sentiment, for this concluſive Reaſon; We are to be happy after Death. Providence always acts by the moſt continued, uniform, and conſtant Means. Love and Friendſhip are the higheſt Enjoyments of Mortals: They are likewiſe in the Series of Virtue. Would it not be Caprice in Provi⯑dence, [3] to give us new Objects, and ſtrange Affections, when we can be made as happy by the Improvement of the former, as by the Enjoyment of any other? I will never change my Opinion more on this Subject, for your Sake, my ſweet Girl, whoſe Charms (pardon the Quibble) I wiſh to enjoy, both above and below; and in that Wiſh I live, and in that Hope I die,

LETTER CLXXXI. FRANCES to HENRY.

THOUGH I have been, ever ſince I came to Town, overwhelmed with Buſineſs, I cannot ſay that I am diſpleaſed at this Embarras du Monde, as it prevents my having Leiſure to indulge gloomy Reflections, which are the cer⯑tain Conſequence of Indolence and Inactivity: And, though my Spirits are too weak to bear much Fatigue, I would prefer the moſt labo⯑rious Life to the melancholy Hours I ſometimes paſs; not for Want of Employment, but Reſo⯑lution to employ myſelf.

I am, however, far from being ſatisfied with my preſent Condition; for I, almoſt hourly, [4] find the Want of a reaſonable Companion; who, by participating in my Concerns, or ap⯑proving my Actions, would double my Aſſi⯑duity, and, of courſe, my Succeſs. And this leads me to mention two Things I have often thought of—Firſt, Providence certainly deſigned us ſocial Creatures; and that our greateſt Hap⯑pineſs on Earth, and ſtrongeſt Purſuit, is the Enjoyment of a rational and tender Friendſhip; which cannot be attained without devoting the greateſt and beſt Part of our Lives to this ſingle Purpoſe; for I am thoroughly con⯑vinced, that ſincere Love, or real Friendſhip, never was contracted after the Age of Forty: The Mind then takes another Turn, grows callous to the tender, ſoft Impreſſions of Hu⯑manity, and is in Purſuit of Enjoyments directly oppoſite to thoſe, the firſt, and beſt—unleſs before engaged in the dear Tyes of Huſband, or of Friend; if ſo, each Day adds Strength to the bleſt Union, and ſteals the Sting from Sorrow and from Care. Can we then, my deareſt Life, without arraigning the Goodneſs and Wiſdom of the divine Being, ſuppoſe that, from the higheſt Excellence of our Nature, we ſhould be engaged in laudable Purſuits, which are to take up the beſt and happieſt Part of our Lives; and that, after having been at innu⯑merable Pains to obtain them, the Enjoyment ſhould ceaſe, juſt when we are capable of it, [5] by putting off this frail Mortality? No—it cannot be! With thee I'll range the liquid Fields of Air, wander through all the Immenſity of Bliſs, and find none equal to thy dear So⯑ciety; ſo fix my Heaven there.

I grow quite an Enthuſiaſt on this Subject, and, of courſe, talk an infinite deal of Nonſenſe; but ſure you will excuſe me, when I ſolemnly declare, I have no Idea of Happineſs, either in this World or the next, unſhared by thee.

The ſecond Thing I have to mention is, my Surprize at your being able to live ſo long alone; "for, in Unequals, what Society?" And ſure you appear to me like Adam, before ‘the laſt and beſt of all God's Works’ was formed, dignified with, and conſcious of that Superiority he felt, amidſt his vaſſal Brutes: Yet could Equality alone render Society agreeable to you, you muſt, indeed, condemn yourſelf to a per⯑petual Solitude; for, in that Caſe, I know not where it would be poſſible for you to find a Companion.

I am but juſt come home from Lady —'s. My Watch lies on the Table, and points to Twelve; ſo I muſt bid you a thouſand Times Good-Night!

LETTER CLXXXII. HENRY to FRANCES.

I AM come ſo far on my Way to London, and ſhall be able to receive juſt one Letter from you, before I leave it. My Uncle is in the Gout, which will not mend his Temper; and the three Women, I left behind me, are in a hopeful Way with him, and he, of conſequence, extremely unhappy with them; for Providence has ordered it's eternal Laws ſo equitably, that whoever makes another unhappy, by Perverſeneſs of Temper, makes himſelf no leſs ſo. I have more Indulgence for great Vices, than for this peeviſh, unſociable Humour, which Men ab⯑ſurdly contract at that Stage of Life, when they ſtand moſt in need of all the friendly, amuſing, and ſocial Helps, to aid them through. The other Vices have Nature on their Side, or Al⯑lurements and Temptations, to excuſe them; but Moroſeneſs is contrary to Nature, (who diffuſes Chearfulneſs among all her Works) and is alſo a Self-torment in the very Exerciſe. As I have often ſaid, I look'd upon Chearfulneſs to be an Hymn to Providence, as well as a ſtrong Indication of a virtuous Mind, ſo, I am almoſt bold to affirm, that Ill-humour is Blaſphemy in the Act, and a moral Vice in the Diſpoſition: [7] Nay, to prove it a Vice, by the ſtrict Rules of Logic, I affirm it to be a Thing diametrically oppoſite to the Nature of Virtue; for, as that is it's own Reward, this is it's own Puniſhment.

It is obſerved by Addiſon, that few People have all the Qualities requiſite to render Life agreeable: But there are two indiſpenſably ne⯑ceſſary, which are in every one's Power; Chearfulneſs and Conſtancy. Now he who wants either of theſe, ſhould be condemned; while thoſe, who fall ſhort in the Gifts of Nature, ought only to be pitied. Here it may be proper to ſay ſomething in my own Defence, who ſeem to labour under this Rule, in ſome People's Opinion; but obſerve, that there may be Chearfulneſs without Mirth, and Conſtancy with Profeſſing.

LETTER CLXXXIII. HENRY to FRANCES.

IT may ſeem idle to write you a Letter now, which you will get but a few Hours before I ſee you; but I do it, perhaps, to ſhew you, I have not ſo paltry a Conſideration for you, as [8] the ſaving you a Groat; though I am ſure, as I have no Letter of your's to anſwer, that I ſhall not be able to ſay any thing which can defray the Expence.

Our Aſſizes ended this Day, by the Execu⯑tion of all the Condemned; among whom was Johnſon, a Rogue of ſome Conſequence. When I heard the Guards coming down the Street, I retired to a back Room, as it is not a Spectacle I care to look on; but, conſidering it as an Object which might give Occaſion to ſome uſeful Reflections, I returned, and ſaw them paſs by. The firſt Thought which occurred to me was, that I ſhould be glad to have been, for ſome Time, in their Situation, out of Curioſity, to know how a Man feels, or imagines, in ſuch ſhocking Circumſtances; for the mere Deſcrip⯑tion of any thing does not ſufficiently ſatisfy me. I ſhould be alſo glad, more particularly, to know how I ſhould behave myſelf, upon ſuch an Occaſion; whether I ſhould feel myſelf moſt concerned for my Crime, or ſhocked at the Puniſhment; whether my Hopes, through the Merit of Repentance, would be ſufficient to ſup⯑port me through the Terrors; if the Shame, or Pain, would afflict me moſt; whether I ſhould act like a Madman, or a Fool; and, laſtly, whether I could have Strength of Mind ſufficient to ſupport that calm and philoſophic Temper at my Death, which great Part of my Life has [9] been laid out in endeavouring to attain. With regard to the Wretches themſelves, I had one comfortable Reflection, which will henceforward take off greatly from the Shock, which Execu⯑tions of this Kind give to the humane Mind: That few of ſuch Creatures ever reclaim of themſelves; but, proceeding in a Series of Ini⯑quities, die without Repentance. In this the executed Malefactor has a great Advantage above the Rogue who eſcapes. The condemned Man has that Benefit which the Pſalmiſt prays for ſo emphatically: ‘Teach me, O Lord, ſo to number my Days, that I may apply my Heart unto Wiſdom!’ And I think, that the higheſt Crimes, ſincerely repented of, ſhall meet more Favour in the next World, than leſſer Offences, unattoned by Sorrow and Contrition. I ſhall purſue theſe Gallows Meditations no farther; but only obſerve to you, the powerful Effect of this great Salvo of Repentance, towards the per⯑fect Quietiſm of a Mind, the leaſt imbued with Religion, though untutored by Philoſophy, in the Inſtance of Johnſon, this Day; who, juſt before he mounted the Ladder, declared he would not change his preſent Situation with any Man in the World.

LETTER CLXXXIV.

I AM, at preſent, ſitting in the midſt of a large Field of Barley, which I reaped the other Day; and am taking Care of the Binders and Stackers: There are forty-ſeven Women, and fourteen Men, at Work round about me, while I am reading Pliny, and writing to you.

I think Lord Orrery's Comment upon the ſeventh Epiſtle is extremely fine. The eighth Epiſtle of Pliny has a great Nobleneſs of Senti⯑ment, and a particular Juſtneſs of Thought. I love the fine Struggle between natural Vanity, and the Contempt of Praiſe; which is obvious through the whole Letter. It may be Stoiciſm, if you pleaſe; but I never will admit any Pre⯑tence to Virtue to be true Heroiſm, which ſeems to be above human Nature, 'till it has firſt ſhewn its Strife with the Frailties of it. The ninth Epiſtle was always a Favourite of mine: But there was a Note I expected from Lord Orrery upon this Paſſage, ‘Thou art almoſt preferable,’ &c. There is no Doubt but Pliny, if he had conſulted his own Taſte and Inclinations, would have left out that Adverb, and put in omnino, or altogether: But the Philo⯑ſophers [11] were obliged to ſpeak of the tranquil Joys of retired Contemplation, and learned Leiſure, with ſome Caution and Reſerve; either becauſe the Antients had ſo often ſpoken, and written, in ſuch Raptures of theſe Pleaſures, that the World had got into a Kind of Enthu⯑ſiaſm, which alarmed Governments and States; and the more particularly for this Reaſon, that thoſe Men, who are fitteſt for the World, are moſt fond of retiring from it; or elſe Pliny moderated his ecſtatic Soliloquy, becauſe he could not think a Man, who was retired from all Buſineſs, could be quite ſo virtuous, or, at leaſt, capable of exerciſing ſo much Virtue, as one who employed himſelf in the Affairs of this World; for ſome Part of the Duty of a Man, born a ſocial Creature, muſt be neglected.

In the Comment upon the tenth Epiſtle, there is poetical Wit in the Alluſion to Ajax's Shield. There is an Expreſſion in the ſame Comment, which I think exceptionable: Speaking of the young Men among the Romans, he calls them Gentlemen; which, being a modern Phraſe, is improperly applied, when we are ſpeaking of the Antients.

The Obſervations upon the eleventh Epiſtle are very pretty, and very juſt; and pleaſe me particularly, becauſe they flatter me about a Sentiment you may remember of mine, that ‘[12] Abſence to Friends, like Death to Enemies, buries every Fault, and enlivens every Virtue.’

In the laſt Paragraph of the Comment upon the 20th Epiſtle, there is a good deal of Wit and Juſtneſs in the Simile of Lightning. There is alſo ſomething extremely pretty in the Anno⯑tation to the ſecond Epiſtle of the ſecond Book, in the Alluſion to the Flux and Reflux of the Sea. The ſixth Epiſtle of the ſame Book pleaſes me much. I have been always offended, when I have ſeen ſuch improper and paltry Diſtinctions at very good Tables, which I have often done; and always made it a Rule with myſelf, to take Part with the deſpiſed Gueſt, which has ſome⯑times had the proper Effect upon the Enter⯑tainer.

I received your Letter, with Lady —'s in⯑cloſed, and am much obliged to her for re⯑membering me, which it ſeems ſhe does, by mentioning Lord —. I know already, that I am not to expect any thing from her Kind⯑neſs, in that Particular; for I mentioned to you before Mr. —'s Anſwer to my Letter, on that Head. Now, as I have a Way of profiting ſomething from every Diſappointment in Life, I ſhall, from this, have the Satisfaction of feeling the grateful Senſe of Lady —'s Patronage, pure and unmixed, for the Friendſhip ſhe de⯑ſigned me; whereas, had I ſucceeded, my Acknowledgments might be looked upon [13] rather as a Rejoicing at the Emoluments of it, than a Gratitude for the Favour itſelf.

Now have at her Ladyſhip's ^‡ Criſs-Croſs— A, then, is [...] B is [...] C ſpends his. Time between Books, Muſic, and the Buſineſs of his Farms; has, indeed, an un⯑comfortable Proſpect, with Regard to his For⯑tunes; but has a certain Sturdineſs in his Na⯑ture, which helps to keep up his Spirits. He has that happy Conſtitution and Turn of Mind, that, contemplating every Fortune or Accident in this Life, as he hopes to do when he is out of it, he regards each Incident of it as a Man ſhould do, ‘at the Hour of Death, or in the Day of Judgment;’ ſo that he is reſolved to regulate his preſent Actions upon that Plan, which the Ages, ſome Centuries hence, (ſhould his Memory laſt ſo long,) ſhall approve, or, at leaſt, not condemn; when all Prejudices, private Intereſts, or partial Connections, ſhall be no more. [...]

[14]The fourth Letter in the Alphabet is, of courſe, D; but either the Careleſſneſs of her Ladyſhip's Typography, or my own ready Adaption of the Letter, has made me fix on O, which, from the Figure, being the moſt perfect in Geometry, ſeems to bear the neareſt Analogy to the Perſon decyphered by it. O! may our Loves, our Joys, our Days, end, like the Circle, as they have begun! (for I keep no Record of Time before our firſt Acquaintance) and may our Wiſhes, like that too, have but one common Center!

I am concerned at your Apprehenſions about Lady L—'s Face; but more for her as a Child, than as a Woman: For Beauty is deſirable, when we can expect nothing better; but a Woman may be amiable, without a Symmetry of Features; which I cannot inſtance in you, becauſe I think you handſome; but Lady — may fill the Example, as ſhe was never reckoned a Beauty: And may the Mother's Fortune at⯑tend the Child, to miſs a Fop, and gain a Man of Senſe!

I am ſorry for the Accident which happened to your Eye: But, if it ends only in a Blemiſh, I am quite eaſy; for Mens ſana in Corpore ſano completes all my Wiſhes, with Regard to you.

LETTER CLXXXV.

YOU ſpeak too humbly, my dear Fanny, about your Perſon: It is, to my Liking, amiable; and no Compariſon can render it otherwiſe to me, but that of your Underſtand⯑ing: And, though Age, or Sickneſs, may forfeit your common Admirers, ‘Beſt quitted with Diſdain;’ yet your Charms, to me, muſt ſtill remain: For, though the ſetting Sun (to uſe a bold Ex⯑preſſion) annihilates the Shadow, the Subſtance ſtill remains the ſame.

I am ſorry you had nothing more particular to tell me, in your laſt, about our Lady —; which is a fond Expreſſion among the Antients, ſignifying a particular Regard, or Friendſhip, to any Perſon.

I have got home the fine Edition of the Spectators I promiſed to ſend you. The Papers, I deſign to make Part of a Collection, (hinted to you in a former Letter,) which I mean to intitle, "The Solamen Miſeris, or Cordial of Adverſity," are, Numbers 210, 213, the latter Part of 225, 257, 289, 312, 381, 387, 408, 447, 459, 465, 471, 487, 494, 495, 513, 519, 520, 531, 537, 543, 571, 600, 601, 615, 621, 624, 626, 628, 633, 634, and 635. There are but four Papers in the Tatlers to be added to them: Number 89, the firſt Part of Number [16] 170, Number 135, and 211. I have not looked into the Guardians lately, but ſhall ſoon do it, with a View to this humane and uſeful Work. Writings of this Kind have admirable Effects upon a Mind rightly turned: They have quelled all Ambition in me: They have recon⯑ciled me to Poverty, rendered me luke-warm to Fame, have comforted me in Affliction, have even alleviated Pain, and taken away the Ter⯑rors of Death: At the ſame Time, they have enlivened my Hope, enlarged my Views, and opened ſuch a glorious Proſpect into Eternity, that the Mind's Eye but careleſsly glances over every Object, which lies intermediate to it; yet not with ſuch an intemperate Enthuſiaſm, as to hinder a thorough Reſignation to the Diſpen⯑ſations of Providence; for I contemplate the Joys of Eternity, without any Impatience for the Poſſeſſion of them; which is owing to the ad⯑mirable Contrivance of the Almighty, who has given us ſuch a Self-Conviction of the Pleaſures of Hereafter, as may make us reſt in Hope; but reſtrained us from ſuch a Senſe of them, as might render us impatient in our Wiſhes.

LETTER CLXXXVI. FRANCES to HENRY.

WHAT a Scene of tranquil Happineſs does my dear practic Philoſopher's Letter preſent me with! How earneſtly, how paſſionately do I wiſh to ſhare thoſe rational Delights, which he can, at once, partake and inſpire! How "altogether preferable" ſhould I think it, to be ſeated by him on an Hillock of Hay, contemplating the Works of Nature, while he deduced each obvious Effect from it's firſt great Principle; and made me loſe all Wonder, in Praiſe and Gratitude to that Almighty Being, who firſt created, and then made him mine!

I ſay, how much ſhould I prefer that happy Situation to a Throne, without thee, thou deareſt and moſt charming of thy Sex! Nor will I doubt, that my ſharing would enhance the Pleaſures of Retirement; for Solitude's the Nurſe of Love, as well as Contemplation; and I am very ſure, were we to live but a few Months in a calm ſettled Way together, you would be infinitely fonder of me than you are, or can be, at preſent; as I make no doubt but we ſhould then experience the charming Theory you have ſomewhere laid down: ‘Chearfulneſs without Mirth, Gravity without Spleen, and [18] the warmeſt Love with the higheſt Eſteem.’ —You will, perhaps, be ſurprized, when I tell you, that I now rejoice at what I have ſome⯑times looked on as the greateſt Misfortune of my Life; that we have not lived together. We ſhould have been miſerable, if that had hap⯑pened two Years ago. It is but a very ſhort Time, ſince I became thoroughly acquainted with you: That Knowledge has increaſed my Love and Eſteem for you. You have intro⯑duced me to myſelf: Need I ſay, that, by knowing myſelf, I have triumphed over my greateſt Foible? And ſure I cannot err greatly, after your pointing out my Faults, when I declare, in the Sincerity of my Heart, that I have no Will of my own, nor Wiſh, but that of rendering my little Self agreeable to you.—If it were not a Work of Supererogation, I could even wiſh that I had greater Failings to ſurmount, as they would be a ſtill ſtronger Proof of your Love and mine.

Though I remember the Subject of each par⯑ticular Letter you mention in Pliny, I will not pretend to ſpeak my Sentiments, as I have not the Books by me; if I had, I ſhould certainly ſtart Objections, for the Pleaſure of being re⯑futed by you.

I have not been at the Rock theſe ten Days: I have lain in Bond-Street ſince I came to Town, and am almoſt killed with Raking. I ſhall not [19] leave London 'till Kitty does. I know you will be a little angry with this Account of myſelf, 'till you recollect, that I have not ſeen her for ſome Months, and that the greateſt Part of our Converſation is about you; which being a Sub⯑ject I ſhall never be weary of, I cannot think of quitting it without Reluctance.

With your's I received a long Letter from Lady —. I think, according to your Defi⯑nition of it, the Letter O is much better adapted to her than to me; for ſhe is, indeed, the Center of female Perfection. By her Deſire, I incloſe you Lord —'s Letter. Nothing can be more elegant than your Sentiments, with Regard to her Intentions to ſerve you.

I am vaſtly anxious to know what you have determined about Belvidere.—Kitty is tearing the Pen out of my Hand: When ſhall I be able to write, or converſe with you, ſans Interruption? I can no longer withſtand the Riot round me; but, though they force my Hand away, my Heart is unalterably your's.

LETTER CLXXXVII.

AS the Poſt for this Day is not come in, I do not know yet, whether you leave Town To-morrow or no; therefore I ſhall write to you, becauſe I would not ſpare myſelf any Trouble certain, for even the Chance of giving you a Quarter of an Hour's Amuſement.

I met with a ſmall Treatiſe Yeſterday, intitled, "On the Employment of Time." It is wrote by Gilbert Weſt. I think it is very well collected; for, indeed, it is moſtly a Heap of Quotations, and ſhews more of Learning than Underſtand⯑ing: For a Work of this Kind almoſt any Man may compile, who reads with a Common-place Book by him.

Young, the Satiriſt, has two very ſevere Lines againſt Quotations, which, for that Reaſon, I ſhall not recite; and there is certainly nothing ſo tireſome to the Reader as Writings of that Kind, which are only to be admitted in Works of Fancy, but not at all neceſſary upon moral or philoſophical Subjects. For Example; If Mr. Weſt ſpeaks Senſe or Reaſon, what Occaſion is there to inform us, that Cicero thought the ſame Way, or ſaid the ſame Thing? It is Argument, not Authority, which convinces. All Know⯑ledge [21] is derived originally from the human Underſtanding; and a Thought is nevertheleſs our own, becauſe it has been hit on by ſome⯑body elſe before: And one may as well quote Adam for breathing, becauſe he was the firſt Creature who did ſo, as Euclid for ſaying that the three Angles of every Triangle are equal to two right ones, becauſe, he was the firſt Perſon who demonſtrated that Propoſition.

A quoting Author is juſt as ridiculous as a Country Girl, who, upon her firſt coming to Town, being decked out by the Help of her Friends, ſhould make public Acknowledgment from whom ſhe had her Stockings, her Shift, her Stays, &c. So that, if every Perſon was there to claim their own; ſhe would be left as naked as the Jay in the Fable, or as ſuch a pye⯑bald Author, ſay Writer rather, ſay Complier, ſay Publiſher, ſay ſecond-hand Cook, who gives you a Beggar's Diſh out of Fragments, or ſay Printer's Sign-Poſt, upon which are paſted the heterogeneous Scraps of many Authors.

I remember a ſtupid Sort of Fellow, who uſed to put me in mind of theſe Men, who are too modeſt to ſay any Thing of their own; for he never aſked for Bread, Drink, told you what o'Clock it was, or mentioned even the moſt trifling Occurrence, without adding, ‘as the Man ſaid:’ And whenever he had a mind, like theſe Men, to ſhew the Extent of his [22] Learning, by recurring up to the moſt antient Authority, he would cry, ‘as the Man ſaid a great while ago.’

The Importance of the Subject, which Mr. Weſt treats on, is great, and ought to be the frequent Reflection of every Man of Senſe, Morality, or Religion. He has conſidered it with Regard to the two laſt, and placed the Matter in ſeveral very ſtrong Lights: But, as a Thing of this Conſequence cannot ſtand in too many Points of View, I ſhall attempt to conſider it with Relation to the firſt, merely as a rational Man, without any Regard to Virtue; relative only to our preſent State, and, in that Reſpect, confined intirely to ourſelves: Which few Hints you may ſtile, Of the Oeconomy of Time—Of the ſimple Enlargement of it—Or, a certain Method to lengthen Life, in Spight of Fate, or of the Grave.

There is an Expreſſion often made uſe of by thoughtleſs People, which aſtoniſhes and provokes me extremely; ‘Let us do ſo and ſo, to kill Time.’ It is ſome Revenge, however, to obſerve, what Suicides they are, at the ſame Time of this moſt horrid and unnatural Murder: So true it is, that We and our Time muſt live and die together. We generally lament the Shortneſs of Man's Life taken together, while we are blaming the Tediouſneſs of every Portion of it. This Contradiction may be accounted [23] for, if we conſider, that as Time, unemployed, lags heavily along, an idle Perſon, for this Reaſon, muſt complain of tireſome Days; and as Duration is marked only by the Succeſſion of Ideas, his Life muſt appear ſhorteſt, who has feweſt Actions or Paſſages to recollect.

To conſider Man, then, only with Regard to this Life; What a miſerable Wretch muſt he be, whoſe paſſing Minutes are told as ſo many Hours, and whoſe paſt Years are reflected upon but as ſo many Days!

Let us then, as rational Creatures, contrive ſo to employ ourſelves in a Series of Actions, which, by marking every Period of our Lives, we may enjoy this great and happy Advantage, that the preſent Moments ſhall glide imper⯑ceptibly away, and our paſt Age appear ſo long, upon ſumming up, that we may not murmur at the ſhort Span "of threeſcore Years and ten."

Again, 'tis computed, that the generality of Men ſleep away about one Third of their Time, that is, about eight Hours in the twenty-four. Now five Hours is full ſufficient for any Perſon, who would preſerve Health of Body, and Vigour of Mind: So that there may be above three Hours ſaved out of every Day, which is about one Day in the Week, and that is one Year in ſeven. Then, by the Time a Man has reached [24] his grand Climacteric, he may be ſaid to have lived juſt nine Years more than ſome of his twin Cotemporaries.

What would a Man give for nine Years added to ſixty-three! How much more valuable are nine Years before ſixty-three! for ſurely that Time is the moſt preferable, which we can live without growing older. We cannot, indeed, borrow Time from Death; but we can take it from it's Semblance, Sleep — Which brings me to the Cloſe of my Propoſition, or ‘a certain Method to lengthen Life, in Spight of Fate, or the Grave.’

LETTER CLXXXVIII.

I HAVE read the Treatiſe you mention, but like your Supplement to it much better. It is a double Charity to write to me on Subjects at preſent, becauſe there is not a Book in this Houſe, which could ſupply me with Matter for a Minute's Reflection; which makes the Time, except what I ſpend in reading your Letters, or writing to you, paſs like an idle Dream, which leaves no Trace behind.

[25]Your Letter has made me grow quite im⯑patient at the Reflection of having loſt ſo much of my Life. The Deſire of improving my Mind, and fixing it's Contemplation upon proper Objects, increaſes daily; yet, by ſome unforeſeen Accident, I find myſelf continually deprived even of one Day's Retirement, and am, if I may uſe the Expreſſion, conſtantly immerſed in Idleneſs.

The Tediouſneſs of preſent Time is often irkſome to the wiſe Man as well as the Fool, though not in ſo great a Degree; which has been conſidered as a Proof of the Soul's Immor⯑tality: For we are continually puſhing forward to ſome Point of Time, which, when arrived at, falls ſhort of the Expectations we had raiſed upon it; we ſtill perſiſt in flattering ourſelves, and fix our Happineſs on ſome future Period, which, in it's Courſe, brings Diſappointment too; and yet we ſtill go on, wiſhing the preſent Hour were paſt, and hoping Peace or Joy from ſome more diſtant Aera; 'till the Grave open⯑ing, interrupts our Schemes, and ſhews the only Proſpect where the Soul can reſt. Oh! may we fix our Graſp on that Strong-Hold, which cannot, will not fail us; and, like the Patriarch, wreſtle for a Bleſſing! Let the incumbering World recede, and even our mutual Loves decay, before the glorious Hope of Immortality! What Joy, what more than Tranſport, do I [26] feel, in thinking that, when Death ſhall have diſſolved the poor, infirm, and feeble Forms, which now incaſe our Spirits, we ſhall meet again, conſcious of each other's Love and Truth, in perfect Bliſs above!

I do not cordially approve of your leſſening the Portions of Time allotted for Sleep. It is wiſe Nature prompts, and all Philoſophy is vain which dares oppoſe her. She has appointed equal Periods to Labour and to Reſt; while Man, impatient to be happy, ſteals from his only promiſed Bleſſing, Eaſe, to ſquander in the vain Purſuit of Wealth or Pleaſure. I muſt own, notwithſtanding your philoſophical Moral, which I acknowledge to be very ingenious, that I am a great Friend to Sleep, whom Silius Italicus calls the moſt amiable of all the Gods. When tired out with Grief or Pain, it ſtrengthens and renews the Springs of Life; we wake refreſhed, and feel a Kind of ſilent Hymn of Gratitude ariſe in our Minds for this, more than for any other Bleſſing. While we ſleep, we are, at leaſt, negatively good, incapable of acting or deſigning Ill; and I am afraid, that even the beſt Man has more to anſwer for his wakin [...] than his ſleeping Hours, be he never ſo great a Sluggard. However, I ſhall receive one Advan⯑tage from your Doctrine, that I ſhall inſiſt upon your Practice keeping up to your Preaching; and I will certainly produce your Letter againſt [27] you, whenever I find you begin to yawn about Ten o'Clock; for that is a moſt unreaſonable Hour for a Perſon to go to Bed, who has not Occaſion to ſleep more than five.

LETTER CLXXXIX.

YOUR'S of the 19th I ſhall anſwer, by deſiring you to look into that Letter of mine, which gave you Occaſion to ſpeak upon this Head; and you will find, that I did not ſay my Philoſophy prevented me from feeling. A Man may be very ſenſible of the Gout or Stone, without roaring — nay, more ſo, for the Expreſſion of either Grief or Pain is obſerved to leſſen the Poignancy of them. I would ſay with Romeo, "hang up Philoſophy," indeed, if it ſerved to extinguiſh in my Breaſt the leaſt Part of that manly Love, that tender Friendſhip, that ſoft Sentiment, or that warm Affection, which my charming Fanny is beſt capable of inſpiring; my quick Senſe of all which, I am proud to own, and grateful to acknowledge, I owe to her alone.

As to your leaving England, you may remem⯑ber, I told you before, that, though I might [28] ſubmit, I never ſhould conſent; becauſe I could never ſincerely do it. But upon this Subject I hope to have an Opportunity of ſpeaking more at large in a few Days, when I deſign being in Town.

I do not remember the particular Conver⯑ſation, you hint at, juſt before I left London. I am very certain, I never came into ſuch an Agreement; and, if you propoſed it, I have forgot it — as I ſhould do every Thing, which betrayed the leaſt Unkindneſs in you.

I ſhall ſend this Night to the Poſt for your Letter, and am impatient to know how you are. I am afraid you ſpent your Time, careleſs of your own Health, I may ſay, of my Health, while Kitty was in Town. I wiſh a little Scolding Would do you any Good.

My deareſt Fanny, I do not leſſen the Portion of Time allotted by Nature for Reſt. I find five Hours ſufficient for my Health and Spirits; more Sleep injures both; then rationally I con⯑clude, Nature meant no more. Now every Indulgence we take, beyond what Nature re⯑quires, is rather a Fatigue, than a Refreſhment. This is equally true in Meat, and Drink, and Sleep: And, to conſider it in this Light, th [...] Paſſage in Lord Grimſton's Play, which, along with the whole Performance, has been ſo laughed at, is not quite ſo abſurd, as it is generally taken; ‘I'll reſt my wearied Bones, 'till they [29] more wearied be.’ I do not think, with you, that a Man is paſſively good, all the while he is aſleep; it would be great Favour to allow him to be even negatively bad. The Mind of Man was framed for a Series of rational Thought, and his Life deſigned for a Courſe of moral Actions; if then, without Neceſſity, he ceaſes to think, or act, to the beſt of his Powers, he mars the Ends of his Creation. Nay, I think, we can hardly refrain from charging poſitive Guilt upon a Perſon, who ſleeps more than he needs. Sleep is a temporary Death; and, as I hinted to you upon this Subject before, how a Man may lengthen his Life, he by this Means ſhortens it, of courſe; then, for ſo much, he is guilty of Suicide. Is not a Man guilty of Theft, who ſteals from an Heap, becauſe he does not pocket the Whole? And, if a Parcel of Money be laid in a Line upon a Table, is he not equally criminal, who takes from the Middle, as if he ſtole from one End?

I have now gone through both your Letters, and, having nothing better or more agreeable to do, ſhall return to Pliny; but ſhall firſt obſerve to you, that I have had frequent Thought, ſince I was upon this Work, of writing Remarks upon your Letters, ‘and hold my Farthing-Candle to the Sun.’ This would be an Undertaking, which would require a great deal, but not too much, Time; for, though your [30] Letters are but few, yet the Comments would be many, either to point out the Beauties, or expreſs my Admiration of them.

The ſixteenth Epiſtle of the fifth Book is a very fine and a very affecting one. I love Pliny moſt, when he ſpeaks upon ſuch Subjects as theſe. His generous Friendſhips, extreme Tenderneſs, and extenſive Humanity, have given me ſuch an Affection for him, beyond any of the Antients I am acquainted with, that I am reſolved he ſhall be the firſt Perſon I will inquire for, when I go to Heaven; for there he is, if St. Paul be there. There may be many greater Characters, I mean with Regard to Hiſtory, but not one more amiable. How vain then is Ambition, when Pliny is preferred to Alexander, or Caeſar! and how ſurprizing, that Men ſhould ſtill continue in a Miſtake, when ſo little Re⯑flection may ſet them right!

LETTER CXC.

AS I never read with complete Pleaſure, but when we are together; ſo it gives me Uneaſineſs, in my Muſaeum, when any Senti⯑ment or Criticiſm occurs to me, that I cannot immediately communicate it to you: And this [31] is the Reaſon, that many of my Letters treat upon Subjects, which ſeem not proper for ſuch familiar Epiſtles, as our's generally are; ſo that, perhaps, ſome of them appear ſtiff merely from the Freedom of them; for I never ſit down with a Deſign of writing you a Letter, but, when I take Pen in Hand, I write you whatever occurs to my Mind at that Time, whether Poetry, Metaphyſics, Politics, or Divinity.

For Inſtance, now, who could think of en⯑tertaining a young Woman of Wit, Gaiety, and poetic Rapture, with a Diſcourſe upon Self-Murder? But I happened this Morning to look into a Treatiſe againſt Suicide, by Dr. Watts, which I think a very inſufficient Performance.

Authorities drawn from the Scriptures, or Writings of the Philoſophers, may have Effect upon very weak or over religious Minds: But Reaſons, not Authorities, are requiſite to Men of Senſe, or free Reflection; which a Man may have, without being an Atheiſt, or merely a Deiſt.

In thoſe Places, where the Author attempts to reaſon, he does it very imperfectly; of which I ſhall give you two Inſtances, among many. He ſays, ‘We are placed here, like a Centinel at his Poſt,’ &c. and after going on, with a great deal of Common-place, on that Head, concludes, from the ſuppoſed Analogy of human and divine Things, that Suicide muſt be a [32] Crime. But this is begging the Queſtion. What Authority from Reaſon have we to ſay, that Man is placed here, as a Centinel? Or, what Certainty have we of this Analogy? In Meta⯑phyſics, indeed, we are obliged to give ſome Definitions of our Ideas, in order to help us to diſcourſe intelligibly about them; but, in Re⯑ality, there may be no more Relation between the Things themſelves, and our Ideas of them, than there is between Colours and Sounds; though a blind Man, to give us his Notion of Red, compared it to the Sound of a Trumpet, but yet, in true Philoſophy, it comes as near the Sound of a Lute: And, indeed, the ſpecu⯑lative Divines ſeem to me, generally, to reaſon, like this Man, with more Fancy than Logic.

Another Piece of Reaſoning, he makes uſe of, is this: ‘That, though we cannot perceive any Relation, we are placed in, with Regard to this Life, (as in ſome Inſtances may be the Caſe) which might make our Death a moral Evil; yet, perhaps, we may be appointed by God to influence ſome future Event, and ſo the Ends of Providence may be diſappointed by one Man's Impatience.’ Now I think it extremely weak, perhaps impious, to imagine, that it can be in the Power of one Man, or Mankind united, to fruſtrate the leaſt Scheme or Deſign of Providence: And a Thief, at the Gallows, may make uſe of ſuch an Argument [33] with as much Reaſon as any body elſe: So that this Reaſoning, by proving too much, proves nothing.

Watts has, indeed, ſummed up all that has ever been ſaid upon this Occaſion; but, to tell the Truth, I never met with any thing ſatisfactory upon the Subject; which is owing to the cautious, but unfair Manner of arguing, upon this Head, uſed by the Divines; who, for Fear of giving the leaſt Encouragement to deſperate Men, will not admit of any Sort of Latitude in this Matter. Adieu!

LETTER CXCI. FRANCES to HENRY.

ON finding that my dear Harry's Letter had been opened before it came to my Hands, I began to apprehend that my Letters might have been intercepted. I know not how this Treatment affects you; but it has filled me with the higheſt Reſentment: For ſure it is the Extreme of Inſolence and Cruelty to deprive us of the only Means left to ſoften the tedious, me⯑lancholy Hours of Abſence: Nor can I believe that any Law, human or divine, has veſted even a Parent with ſuch a Power. What barbarous Tyranny then to aſſume it!

[34]I have often experienced the Uneaſineſs you mention, at reading any thing that pleaſed me when you was not with me. One finds but a vague Enjoyment in any Pleaſure, unſhared by the Perſon beloved.

I think I have Reaſon to reſent the Apology you make for writing upon Subjects above a tawdry Girl's Reflection. If you conſider me in that Light, I muſt join with the World in con⯑demning your Taſte: But if, as you have flat⯑tered me, my Perſon has the leaſt Share in your Affection, that you love my Mind, and would improve it, in order to render it capable of the higheſt Enjoyment, that of converſing with you, why need you make any Apology for taking the proper Method of rendering it worthy of your Regard? I have often told you, that no Subject can appear dull or abſtruſe to me, which you wrote on: Nay, I have gone farther, and ſome⯑times fancied, that if you were to write in a Language I was wholly unacquainted with, I ſhould certainly underſtand you; at leaſt I am ſure I ſhould, if I was to hear and ſee you ſpeak it.

I have never met with any of Dr. Watts's Writings; but, from the Specimen you give, I take him to be a better Chriſtian than Philo⯑ſopher. Though I am ſure there may be many ſtronger Arguments againſt Suicide, than thoſe you quote from him, yet I am pleaſed at his [35] conſidering every Individual, though without viſible Tye or Connection, as neceſſary to the Well-being of the whole Species; for, as the Great Artificer made nothing in vain, the Wretch who finds not Happineſs in his own Boſom, or in any outward Objects, may, from this Principle alone, conclude Self-Murder to be a Crime.

But, after all, what are all Arguments about this Matter? Only ſpeculative Eſſays: For I am convinced, that no Perſon ever committed the Act, but an Atheiſt or a Madman. Then it would be in vain to reaſon with the firſt, upon Principles which he denies you; and it would be a Jeſt to reaſon with the other at all.

After this Reflection, I do not look upon Suicide in that ſhocking Light which other People do: For, with Regard to the Atheiſt, I fear it is pretty equal, to his poor Soul, after what Manner he dies; and, as to the Madman, I throw him upon his Mercy, who could, had he pleaſed, have ‘made Reaſon rule, and Paſ⯑ſion be it's Slave.’

LETTER CXCII. HENRY to FRANCES.

[...]

‘I talked of dying; better Thoughts come forward;’ and ſince the Satisfaction I have had in this Day has made me ſomewhat more in Love with Life, I ſhall here give you a Supplement to my laſt Letter, leſt you ſhould imagine I was quite of a different Opinion from Watts, becauſe I did not allow his Reaſoning to be ſufficiently ſtrong upon the Subject.

I do not look upon Suicide, or indeed upon any Act, in the Light that Divines do, as cri⯑minal in itſelf; but regard all Actions, in a general View, as indifferent in themſelves; for the ſame Thing may be virtuous at one Time, and vicious at another: So that the Difference ſeems to lie merely in Circumſtance. I think, with Deference to the Pulpit, that whoever un⯑derſtands the Nature of Vice in any other Senſe, impiouſly charges God with having originally generated Evil. Now, with Regard to this par⯑ticular Inſtance we are upon, I conſider a Suicide not as guilty of a particular Crime, but of ſo [37] much Vice, as the moral Conſequences of the Act leave him chargeable with: And the Chain is ſo extenſive, and the Dependencies ſo nice, in this Life, that very few Men can be free enough, from Relation or Contingency, to be perfectly clear from Guilt in this Act: And, ſo far as it is a Crime, it is of the higheſt Nature ſo, as it has the Aggravation of Preſumption, the Sin of acting againſt Nature, and the Im⯑poſſibility of Repentance.

However there may be particular Inſtances where the Thing may be indifferent in itſelf; yet, even here, though the Action be innocent, the Turn of Mind, which prompts to it, muſt be extremely vicious. It argues an Impatience and Raſhneſs, which are the Signs of an In⯑temperance of Soul, a Diſregard to the Opinion of this World, which every good Man ſhould have Reſpect for, or a Deſpair of God's Provi⯑dence, which a Man of Philoſophy or Religion ſhould never betray.

There are, I think, but three Things which can provoke a Perſon to this deſperate Act; Pain, Poverty, or Shame. If from the firſt Cir⯑cumſtance, then he has forgot what all the Trials in this Life were intended for; and ſo fooliſhly refuſes that Phyſic, which may give him Health to Immortality. If from the ſecond, it is owing to a falſe Pride, and an unchriſtian Spirit, joined to a Habit of Idleneſs, which [38] creates a ſlothful Deſpondency. If from the third, he but ſeals his Name with Infamy, makes that Shame the more public, and de⯑prives himſelf of any Opportunity of retrieving his Character. It was finely ſaid, by ſome great Man, upon hearing Libels had been wrote againſt him, ‘I will live ſo, as to give the Lye to their Reproach.’

Suppoſe a Criminal, leading forth to Execu⯑tion, even he ſhall have no Power over his own Life, though already forfeited and condemned; for he adds to his Crime, by rebelling againſt the Laws of his Country, and deprives the Community of a wholeſome Example of public Juſtice. Beſide, as all human Inflictions may be conſidered as Trials of our Virtue, ſo may even legal Puniſhments, if undergone with Re⯑ſignation, Contrition, and Hope, be conſidered as Attonements for our Crimes.

Thus you ſee, that even in the moſt indif⯑ferent Caſe, though the Action itſelf may be morally innocent, yet it can never be performed but by a vicious Actor.

In ſhort, it is an Action contrary to the Laws of God and Man. The firſt, without recurring to Authorities, may be proved from the natural Abhorrence we find in ourſelves from the Act, which, to Demonſtration, ſhews the Senſe of Providence about the Matter: And the ſecond we know from the general Senſe of Mankind, [39] who have endeavoured to deter from, by affixing Ignominy upon it, the only Way of dealing with the Dead.

But all theſe Reflections may not occur to a Man in the Hurry of the Act; for there are but few deliberate Suicides: Yet ſurely any Moment of Time may afford us Leiſure for this ſhort Expoſtulation; ‘What if it ſhould be a Crime? Then, great God, how ſhocking muſt his Si⯑tuation be, whoſe Conviction comes too late for Repentance!’

P. S. Keep this Letter for me.

LETTER CXCIII.

I RECEIVED your Letter laſt Poſt, with the Pamphlet wrote againſt the ‘Eſſay on Spirit.’ I do not think it is well done; nor has he anſwered the Eſſay in any Sort to my Satisfaction. He ſhelters himſelf entirely under Texts of Scripture, which may be explained and underſtood as well for the Eſſay as himſelf. He does not venture into the Field at large, nor engage at all in the metaphyſical Parts of that Work.

What does he mean by ſaying, that ‘to ſuppoſe the one only ſelf-exiſting God can [40] delegate a Power of Creation, even to the higheſt Spirit, is impious and abſurb?’ It does not appear to me that there is any thing, in ſuch a Suppoſition, beyond the Power, or contrary to the Nature of God.

There is ſomething new in his Opinion, that, by the Expreſſion of the Angel of the Lord, is to be underſtood, not a diſtinct Spirit, but only the Form or Matter with which the Moſt High has ſometimes indued himſelf, in order to be⯑come viſible to the Groſſneſs of human Fa⯑culties. This may be true, for any thing that either he or I know: But I think there is no Authority for it in the Scriptures.

In ſpeaking of the three Men, who were ſtiled Jehovah, and appeared to Lot, and from which he means to deduce a Hint of the Trinity in Unity, he gives a very unſatisfactory Reaſon why only two of them were ſtiled Angels: And I ſhall here venture upon a Sentiment of my own on this Head, which has juſt now occurred to me. Two of the Perſons are called Angels, intimating the Father and the Holy Ghoſt; and the third is only ſpoken of as Man, prealluding to that State of Humanity, which God the Son was, thereafter, to take upon himſelf, in this World.—I think that this Paſſage, thus ex⯑plained, greatly ſtrengthens the Allegory of that Apparition, ſuppoſed to manifeſt to Abraham the Trinity in Unity.

[41]The Inſincerity which he charges upon the Author, in the Dedication to the Primate, is, perhaps, true; but he unfairly paſſes by, that St. Paul was quoted for it, in giving Way, in ſome Things, to the Cuſtoms of the Jews.

As to the "Eſſay on Spirit," my Objection is not to the Treatiſe, but to the Author; for, as he confeſſes himſelf to be a Clergyman, he ſhould have kept himſelf within the Trammels of his Garb; and, ^* as I ſaid before, rather have go⯑verned himſelf by Form, than guided himſelf by Reaſon. The Church Catholicon, indeed, may be a proper Subject for human Diſquiſition, and has, in former Times, been purged, modelled, and reformed, to the great Advantage of Chriſtianity: But the Church eſtabliſhed is a ſacred Thing; the Peace of it is not to be diſturbed, and Noli irritare is it's Motto. The Author is guilty of the ſame Officiouſneſs of a Perſon that ſhould rouze a Friend, dozing away his Life in a Lethargy; who would prefer peaceful Slumbers to the Vigour of Health, or the Length of Days. It had been a more pru⯑dent Attempt to have affirmed Atheiſm, than Unitheiſm; as Truth and Reaſon are more ſafely combated, than Prejudice or Superſtition. It is the ſame Indiſcretion, as it would be in a State, for an enthuſiaſtic Patriot to venture his Life or Fortunes for the Sake of Liberty or [42] Juſtice. In ſhort, Truth is no more to be ſpoken by all Perſons, than at all Times.

For my Part, I think this Eſſay, though it has not immediately advanced the Principles of Chriſtian Morality, has had that great End ulti⯑mately in View, by ſtrengthening our Faith in the Hierarchy. Metaphyſics are, in Truth, a dangerous Science to introduce into Religion; for, where there can be no Certainty, the Doubts muſt be infinite. Natural Philoſophy, with the rational Deductions therefrom, afford, to every contemplative Man, ſufficient Light to work his Salvation by: But ſurely the ſuper-metaphyſical Doctrine, of Trinity in Unity, has made more Chriſtians recur to Deiſm, than Divines, perhaps, are aware of; while the Trinity, as explained in this Eſſay, ſufficiently vouched, I think, from the Scriptures, and the Opinions of the antient Fathers of the Church, who immediately followed the Apoſtles, has nothing anti-metaphyſical in it: The Poſſibility of it is comprehenſible; and then, and then only, it becomes the proper Object of Faith.

But there are ſome enthuſiaſtic Believers, who are over zealous for Myſteries, and think, that any thing, which falls ſhort of Impoſſibility, is not ſufficient Exerciſe for the Chriſtian Faith. Perhaps theſe Men are of that dangerous Sect, who affirmed, that perfect Faith alone was ſuf⯑ficient to Salvation, and that the Doctrine of [43] Good Works was impiouſly preſuming to add to the Merits of our Saviour; though the Apoſtle ſays, ‘Give all Diligence to add to your Faith Virtue.’ 2 Pet. i.5.

For my Part, I think that there is Myſtery enough in the Incarnation, and Redemption, to ſatisfy a reaſonable Man: And, as theſe Things are indeed incomprehenſible, but not directly contrary to our Reaſon, they ſquare, as I ſaid before, with the allowed Definition of Faith.

I ſhall conclude theſe Remarks with an Al⯑luſion to the Body natural. That Conſtitution is in Danger, whoſe Appetite ſwallows more than it's Stomach can digeſt; and the moſt valid Health is always found to be with the moſt temperate Man.

LETTER CXCIV.

I AM, indeed, ſincerely rejoiced to find my dear Harry in ſuch a chearful Mood: For my own Part, I cannot tell when I have been in lower Spirits, than now. I am ſeparated from you; Kitty leaves us To-morrow, and my dear Lady —, in a few Weeks, perhaps, for ever. I have paſſed a very diſagreeable Summer: I am ſick of Parties of Pleaſure, and quite weary of London. My Inclination would carry me to the Country with Kitty: I ſacrifice that to Prudence, [44] and ſtay in a Place I diſlike. Might I not as well be a thouſand, as fifty Miles from you? The Diſtance would not, I am ſure, leſſen my Affection; nor do I believe it would alter your's. You could write to me with the ſame Tenderneſs, if I were in Paris, as in London; and my Replies ſhould always be as conſtant, and as kind. Your Friends would then be ſatiſ⯑fied, there was no Engagement between us, and would leave us both at Peace. If our mutual Regards continued, 'till thoſe Obſtacles were ſurmounted, which now divide us, we ſhould meet with double Gladneſs; and, if they are never to he conquered, Habit would ſupply the Place of Philoſophy, and render our Separation, every Day, leſs painful. In ſhort, I honeſtly confeſs, I never thought of leaving England with ſo little Regret, as now; and ſhould Lady — preſs me to go, but half as warmly as ſhe did ſome Time ſince, nothing, but your Commands, ſhall prevent me. I deſire you will let me know your real Sentiments on this Subject, by Return of the Poſt.

I ſhall, at your Deſire, keep your laſt ^*; and, at my own, all your Letters. I ſhall think my⯑ſelf much obliged, if you will either return, or deſtroy mine: You have already paid me a greater Compliment, and I dare ſay you will not refuſe this, if we part. Though I have [45] ſlightly touched on a Subject, that is to me moſt melancholy, yet, as I find myſelf in ſuch a gloomy Caſt of Mind, I will not venture to make any Reply to your Treatiſe on Suicide, leſt the Lowneſs of my Spirits ſhould make me appear (though contrary to my Reaſon) an Ad⯑vocate for a Crime, I look on with the greateſt Horror.

I expect a very long Letter, by To-morrow's Poſt, in Anſwer to the little Hundred, which I hope you have got of mine. I ſhall, for the future, direct to —, as I think it the ſafeſt Way. I ſhall go to the Rock on Friday. Con⯑tinue to direct to Bond-Street; and believe me

LETTER CXCV.

TO-MORROW is to be a very buſy Day with me, both at home and abroad; therefore I ſhall dedicate this pleaſant, tranquil Sunday Evening to you, leſt I ſhould miſs a Poſt. I am in Haſte too to finiſh Pliny, that I may ſend it up along with the reſt of your Books.

[46]In a Note upon the twenty-ſeventh Epiſtle of the ſeventh Book, we are informed of the Name of that Philoſopher, who gave the famous Advice to Auguſtus, to repeat the twenty-four Letters, whenever he found his Paſſion riſing. I wiſh I had ſeen this Paſſage before the laſt Evening we ſpent at —. The Advice, indeed, I have often heard of; but never knew the Author's Name before, or I ſhould have honoured it. I have very ſeldom known the Charm put in Practice; but always imagined, when I ſaw a Man in a Paſſion, that either he had never heard of it, or had never learnt his Alphabet: Upon which Hint, I am tempted ſometimes to treat ſuch Perſons like Children, and hang a Horn-Book about their Necks, ſaying, with Brutus, ‘I will uſe thee for my Sport, yea, for my "Laughter, when thou grow'ſt waſpiſh.’ The Cure for a Scold, a Poem in one of the Tatlers, is from ſuch a Hint, as this of Athe⯑nodorus.

In the Obſervations upon this ſame Epiſtle, Lord Orrery inveighs againſt the Weakneſs and Credulity, with Regard to Ghoſts and Appa⯑ritions. Now I cannot join with him in this Particular; becauſe there are ſome Stories of this Kind ſo well atteſted, that they ſhould gain Credit, like other Parts of Hiſtory, upon the ſame Authority. The Belief of this Matter is [47] a Thing above our Reaſon, but not contrary to it; which is the proper Definition of Faith: And, if it were made an Article of our Creed, I do not think it would be amiſs; for it is not contrary to Religion, as being vouched by Holy Writ: At leaſt, I would not diſcourage the Belief, ſince it is a ſtrong Proof of Life, after Death; which every Argument that tends to prove, adds Strength to Religion and Virtue. As to the Immortality of the Soul, which I lay hold of every Opportunity to diſcourſe upon, it is a Thing, which a Chriſtian cannot doubt of; becauſe there is expreſs Authority for it in that Book, upon which his Faith is founded: And even to a Deiſt it may be proved, ex abſurbo; which is a Method of arguing in the Mathe⯑matics, when the Truth of a Propoſition cannot be demonſtrated in a direct Manner, the Aſſent is gained, by ſhewing the Abſurdity of the con⯑trary Opinion: As thus; If there be no Here⯑after for Mankind, God is inconſiſtent, and unjuſt; the firſt, in giving us Hopes (which we certainly have from the Light of Nature alone) that are never to be fulfilled; and the ſecond, in ſuffering Virtue, in any Shape, to go unre⯑warded. That Being, then, which is incon⯑ſiſtent, or unjuſt, cannot be God; ergo, a Mortaliſt Deiſt ſinks into an Atheiſt. I would treat an Atheiſt after the ſame Manner that I mentioned juſt now, and brand him with that [48] pupil Enſign, which is the proper Emblem of his extreme Ignorance; for, as the Pſalmiſt juſtly expreſſes it, ‘The Fool hath ſaid in his Heart, there is no God.’

Orrery, in the Notes upon the twenty-eighth Epiſtle, ſays, this Letter ſhould be placed the firſt of the whole Collection; and he is certainly right: Proper Lights, and particular Points of View, are a great Advantage to every thing. He often complains of the Want of Order through the Whole; and I am angry at him, for not ſetting this Matter right; for it would be as little Trouble, as the Obſerving upon it. I have a Mind to do ſo myſelf, when I have finiſhed the Reading.

I am pleaſed with Pliny's Sentiment upon Ridicule, in the laſt Paragraph of the twenty-ninth Epiſtle: And I approve of it as an ad⯑mirable Weapon againſt Vice; and ſurely fitter here employed, than, as Shaftſbury recommends it, for the Teſt of Truth. Almoſt any Man would rather undergo Fine, Impriſonment, or Pain itſelf, rather than the Mortification of being laughed at. Addiſon, and other ingenious Writers, have ſpoken ſo admirably upon the Power of Shame, or Influence of Modeſty, that, for very Shame, I ſhall not attempt to purſue the Subject in this Light; but ſhall take the Liberty, for the Honour of human Nature, to [49] conſider this Matter in a particular Manner, which I never met with, in any Author.

Speech is not the diſtinguiſhing Sign of an human Creature; for Birds have been taught to ſpeak: Nay, all the Brute, or Animal Creation converſe naturally; for their Tones are intel⯑ligible to each other; and what are Words, but Sounds, and Expreſſions of our Ideas? Ratio⯑nality is not the proper Sign neither; for In⯑ſtinct makes that Matter doubtful; and it is certain, that all Animals act logically. Riſi⯑bility is a Mark much inſiſted upon; but, if this is meant merely of a Diſtortion of Countenance, I have ſeen Dogs laugh; and if it be meant as a Sign of Chearfulneſs, or Pleaſure, then the various Expreſſions of theſe Senſations, through⯑out the whole Brute World, ſufficiently anſwer to this Definition. I look upon Modeſty, then, to be the only Characteriſtic, or Criterion, which properly diſtinguiſhes Man from other Animals; as we are certainly the only Creatures known, who have the leaſt Senſe of Shame.

LETTER CXCVI. HENRY to FRANCES.

I SENT a ſecond Meſſenger to the Poſt, ſuſpecting the firſt had deceived me; but not a Line from you, though you muſt know how anxious I am, at preſent, to learn ſome Par⯑ticulars relating to your Situation. Well! I am angry now — but A, B, C, &c. and now kiſs, and Friends; and you are my own ſpoiled Pet again: But, if I do not hear from you by To⯑morrow, I muſt eke out the Roman Alphabet with the Greek and Hebrew. I ſent to know, if Kitty had any Account of you, but received no Satisfaction from thence.

But to return to Pliny: I think Orrery too ſevere upon the ſecond Epiſtle of the eighth Book, not conſidering it as wrote to a Friend, and not to the World. The Privilege of Friendſhip is, to think aloud: And ſhall I be reprimanded for communicating to my deareſt Fanny my humane Sentiments, with Regard to the Gleaner's Harveſt, &c? Or, ſhall I be thought ridiculous for telling you, that I have ſpent good Part of this Morning in the Amuſe⯑ment of a Roman Emperor, catching Flies? not like Domitian, to kill them; but to retrieve them from their torpid State by the Heat of my Hand, and have the Joy to ſee them flutter [51] about the Room with added Life and Vigour. I think it a wrong Thing, to diſcourage, in any Sort, the Exerciſe of Humanity, even the Talking of it; as by this Means, perhaps, ſome People may be, as it were, intrapped into Virtue; by profeſſing it firſt out of Vanity, they may come afterwards to practiſe it out of Shame. Many a Coward has been induced to fight, becauſe he has happened to boaſt that he would.

In the twenty-ſecond Epiſtle there is a very juſt Sentiment, and a very proper one to be conſidered by the ſevere Moraliſt, or the out⯑rageouſly Virtuous: ‘He, who hates Faults, hates Mankind.’

The twenty-third Epiſtle is a very affecting one, and the Character of Junius Avitus is very amiable. It is, indeed, the Nature of the Afflicted to enumerate every little Circumſtance, which once gave us Pleaſure in the Enjoyment of what we have loſt; and it is ſometimes a mortifying Reflection, that, while we are multiplying our Joys, we may, perhaps, be but increaſing the Earneſt of our Griefs.

In the ſeventh Letter of the ninth Book, and ſeveral precedent ones, I find the Reaſon for Lord Orrery's Eſſay upon antient Architecture, which, you may remember, I was a little alarmed about in his Preface to this Work; for which I here offer my Palinode.

[52]On the eighth Epiſtle there is an Inſtance of Wit in the Comment: ‘Vanity, like Smoke, ſmothers and obſcures the Flame, from whence it proceeds.’ I have obſerved a great deal of lively Fancy, as well as juſt Thought, in my Lord's Writing, through the Courſe of this Work: And, upon the Whole, I think he has ſhewn himſelf a Man of Virtue, a Man of Learning, and a Man of Taſte; and if he was not alſo a Man of Rank and Fortune, which might make my Attachment ſuſpected by Per⯑ſons, who have none of the Qualities above⯑mentioned to ennoble their Sentiments, I would certainly take ſome ſolicitous Pains to become acquainted with him.

In the laſt Paragraph of the Preface to the tenth Book, my Lord ſeems in Doubt about the rendering the Word, Dominus; which he has done very juſtly, by tranſlating it, Sir; as it is addreſſed by Pliny to Trajan. It is in this Manner we ſpeak to our Kings; and the French, who are Patterns of all Politeneſs and Decorum, ſalute their Grand Monarque by the Stile of Sire.

The twenty-eighth Epiſtle of the tenth Book ſhould immediately precede the thirtieth; be⯑cauſe, in this laſt, he refers to the former, in theſe Words: ‘I had informed you, by my laſt Letter, that Lycormas, &c.’ I take eſpecial Notice of the Want of Order in this Particular, [53] becauſe my Lord has attempted to place all the Letters of this tenth and laſt Book in a regular Series; and, upon this Occaſion, I ſhall repeat what I ſaid in a former Letter, Why did he not take the ſame Pains throughout?

In his thirtieth Epiſtle Pliny gives an abſurd Reaſon for not detaining the Ambaſſador: He ſays, it was becauſe Lycormas had deſired he ſhould be detained, 'till he himſelf arrived.

The thirty-fifth and thirty-ninth Epiſtles from Trajan are exact Models of all the Court Anſwers to Public Addreſſes.

Adieu, my Life! and believe me, 'till To⯑morrow's Poſt,

LETTER CXCVII.

MY dear little Shrub, my Arbutus, my Ever-green, I wiſh you Joy of your Retirement, and happy Vacation from [...]

I am really charmed with your Reaſoning upon the Analogy between the finite Perfections and the divine Attributes, ſo juſtly deduced from [54] the Wiſdom and Goodneſs of Providence; and am pleaſed, that I carried my Sentiments no farther upon that Subject, than merely to ſug⯑geſt, that, perhaps, there might be no Relation between them: For, when I come cloſe to the Argument with the Divines, I enter the Liſts upon their own Terms; but I only fix the Feet of Jacob's Ladder on the Earth, while you ſoar upon it to the Skies.

I meant to conſider Mercy, as a ſelf-ſufficient, diſtinct, operating Excellence in the Godhead; the proper Objects of which were thoſe, which did not come within the Merits of that Repen⯑tance, which might intitle them to the Juſtice defined in that Letter. I am, my deareſt Fanny, well aware, how little orthodox I am in this Opinion; and therefore call upon myſelf for ſome Explanation of this Subject, as I ſeem to make no Difference between the Good and Bad, with Regard to the unbounded Mercy of God. In order to which, I ſhall make Uſe of an Alluſion, by conſidering Man in this Life, like a Silk-Worm in it's Nymph-State, involved and incompaſſed round with Toils of their own weaving; the one waiting 'till God's Bleſſing, as the other for a warm Sun, ſhall reſcue him to a joyful Reſurrection. Now ſome Inſects carry the Seeds of Death with them into the Grave, and, conſequently, periſh immediately, without being able to revive to a new Life; [55] in which forlorn Situation I conſider a wicked Man — and think I have ſome Authority from Scripture for this Hypotheſis. ‘The Wages of Sin are Death.’ And again, ‘The Lord wiſheth not the Death of a Sinner, but rather, that he may turn from his Wickedneſs, and live.’

Now, though the Inflicting of Puniſhments, as I have ſomewhere ſaid, would, in ſome Sort, deprive Heaven of the full Enjoyment of it's own Perfection; yet ſuch a literal Death, as I underſtand from theſe Texts, that is, the intire Deprivation of Senſe or Being from a Sinner, is not only agreeable to Juſtice, but to Mercy too; for ‘they ſay, bad Men would be unbleſs'd in Heaven:’ And as this Life is given us, in order to prepare our Souls for the Reliſh of that contemplative Bliſs, which is hereafter to be permitted to the Spirits of good Men made perfect, it would be rather an Inſtance of Cruelty, than Mercy, to grant Immortality to thoſe unhappy Wretches, in a State of Exiſtence, which would not admit the Gratification of mortal Senſes, or the Indulgence of human Paſſions.

As I am drawing toward the Concluſion of Pliny's Works, I ſhall finiſh my Remarks upon him, and his Tranſlator, in the Remander of this Letter.

[56]In a Note upon the forty-ſixth Epiſtle, optimo Viro is called an Idiom, but I cannot ſee for what Reaſon: And my Lord might very well have rendered it literally, the beſt of Men, with⯑out appearing the leaſt ſtiff in the Stile of that Expreſſion.

Trajan's Speech, in the laſt Part of the Com⯑ment upon the fifty-firſt Epiſtle, puts me in mind of a Humour of the Widow —, in this Country; who was ſome Time ago married, and the Morning after ſhe appeared capariſoned with an Horſe-whip pinned to her Girdle; and told her Huſband, ſhe meant always to wear it about her, that it might be ready, whenever ſhe deſerved his Chaſtiſement.

In the ſixty-ſeventh Epiſtle, read ſince, for ſcarce.

I have gone through the reſt of this Book, which finiſhes the Volume, and find nothing more, fit to be remarked upon, that is not already taken Notice of by the Commentator, much better than I can pretend to do; and this, in general, is the Reaſon, why I have made ſo few Obſervations upon the whole Work. As to the Freedom I have taken, in ſome Criticiſms, both with the Author, and his Commentator, I ſhall excuſe myſelf with a Quotation out of the thirteenth Epiſtle of the third Book: ‘If I find you ſo frank, as to make Objections to particular Paſſages, I ſhall take [57] it for granted, that you are pleaſed with all the reſt.’ And ſo indeed I am.

I think, the twentieth Epiſtle of the fourth Book would be proper to conclude theſe Remarks with; changing the Word Grief for Senſe, and applying that Letter to Pliny and Orrery.

And now let me aſſure you, my dear Fanny, that I feel a real Concern, upon the Cloſe of this Work, at parting with three ſuch Men, as Trajan, Pliny, and Orrery: But one I hope to know in this Life, and ſhall die in Truſt of meeting the others in the next; and you, my beſt-loved Girl, ſhall know them too: ‘Together to the Realms of Bliſs well go.’ 'Till then, let us live, and love; for, while we do one, I am ſure we ſhall do the other.

LETTER CXCVIII.

I AM vaſtly provoked at your not receiving my Letters regularly: I am uneaſy about my Saturday's Letter, though the Diſappointment only could make it of any Conſequence. As I have nothing extraordinary to ſay, at preſent, [58] with Regard to myſelf, and have not Time to anſwer your's, I ſhould not write To-night, but on Account of the incloſed, which, I am ſure, will give you Pleaſure, as my dear Lady —'s Sentiments correſpond with your's. I have wrote a very long Letter to her; and my Fingers ache to ſuch a Degree, I can hardly hold the Pen. I hope, I have now returned the Compliment you paid me, by bringing her Letter to —.

We will preſcribe the whole Alphabet only to very weak or very iraſcible People; for I think, the five Vowels might ſerve to ſurmount any Reſentment, we could have to each other: However, if you like the ^* Water-Bottle beſt, I will always have one by my Side.

Adieu, my Love!

LETTER CXCIX.

I RECEIVED your's, with Lady —'s incloſed; and am pleaſed to find, ſhe does not ſpeak, like a Courtier, to your Pride, but addreſſes herſelf, like a Philoſopher and a Friend, [59] to your Prudence. It is certain, that no Man partakes of the Lowneſs of his Situation, while he appears above it: And the Queſtion in Life is, not what Part we acted, but how we per⯑formed it. What ſhe ſays, is extremely juſt, ‘that Misfortunes ſhould be rather a Spur, than a Bridle, to us;’ as a Man exerts himſelf more in a Bog, than upon Terra firma; and the noble Mind, like a Tennis-Ball, always riſes in Proportion to it's Fall. Caeſar ſaid bravely, that he would rather be the firſt Man in a Village, than the ſecond at Rome; and I would rather appear above a low Part, than beneath a great one.

I am glad to find, that you have contracted the Maxim of Athenodorus to the Vowels; tho', by mentioning the Water-Bottle, I ſuſpect you mean to add the Liquids to them. Now I will cut the Work ſtill ſhorter; for I will confine myſelf, not only to the Vowels, but to two of them, in Honour of ourſelves: For I think, upon any ſuch Occaſion, we need have Regard but to U and I; and, to ſhorten it ſtill further, let us conſider thoſe two Letters but as Diphthong.

I have been employed theſe three Mornings in two of the moſt oppoſite Amuſements, that one can well imagine; in ſorting and reading all your charming Letters, filled with Kindneſs, Love, and Truth, and pulling the grey Hairs [60] out of my Head — Not, as one might conjecture, to leave myſelf yet the Appearance of Youth, ſufficient to juſtify ſo much Fondneſs, but for a very extraordinary Reaſon; to preſent my lively, gay, young Love with a Locket of them. You have ſeveral Times wiſhed, that I was many Years older than I am; in return for which, I ſhall dedicate every Symptom of Age to you ſtill, as they appear.

Now we are upon the Subject of Age, we may talk of the Epitaphs, which I promiſed to frame for you and me. The two, I have thought of, are, "Evaſi, I have eſcaped," looking upon Death in that philoſophic Light; and "Permutatio felix! A happy Exchange!" conſidering Death, as becomes a Chriſtian, the Means of an Exchange for Immortality. I give you your Choice of them; tho', as I hope, and ſhall take Care, that we ſhall be both laid under one Stone, I will have them both inſcribed, as of one Sentence, to ſhew that in Death, as well as Life, I conſider you Part of myſelf— ‘And in Death they were not divided.’ The Epitaph then ſhall ſtand thus: ‘Evaſimus — Permutatio felix!’ In the Name of God, Amen!

LETTER CC.

I AM almoſt angry with my ſweet Love for not attributing his Diſappointment to any Cauſe, rather than my Neglect. I did indeed write, by Saturday's Poſt, to Lady —, to Kitty, and to you. How extremely rude muſt Lady — think me, as there is no Doubt but all my Letters miſcarried! I am vaſtly uneaſy about them, but particularly for her's, it being of moſt Conſequence.

I join with you in thinking that Friendſhip not only allows the Privilege of communicating our inmoſt Thoughts, and of acknowledging the honeſt Pride we feel from the Exerciſe of any moral Virtue, but that it is a Breach of that noble Intercourſe to conceal even our Faults or Foibles. For my Part, I have ſhewn my Heart as naked to thy View, as to the Eye of Heaven. Real Friendſhip, like true Love, is underſtood by very few, yet common in the Mouths of every one. It can only be conceived by Minds capable of the moſt refined and diſintereſted Sentiments: ‘Reſerve will wound it, and Diſtruſt deſtroy;’ and this makes ‘Friends ſuch Rarities below.’ I think, that Perſons of different Sexes, who, with a tolerable Under⯑ſtanding, have had a ſincere Affection for each other, are moſt likely to be capable of real [62] Friendſhip; for even the Remains of Love will create a Gentleneſs in our Manners, and Complacency of Behaviour; the Want of which is too often the Effect and Bane of common Friendſhips. I declare ſolemnly, I have felt a higher Satisfaction in conſidering myſelf as your firſt Friend, than ever I did in thinking myſelf the Object of your Affection. I know myſelf capable of retaining your Eſteem, becauſe I will never do any Thing to forfeit it; and therefore I receive greater Pleaſure from any Mark of your Confidence, than from the fondeſt Expreſſions of your Love — Not but I ſhall ever wiſh to pre⯑ſerve that too, as I have paid the Price for it, by giving mine; but we are, in general, fonder of what we have no Right to, than what is juſtly our's.

There is no Part of your Character ſo much indears you to me, as the Tenderneſs and Humanity of your Diſpoſition. I have actually felt the ſame Tranſport in thinking of it, as you have done in the Exerciſe; my Heart has trembled, and Eyes overflowed with Pleaſure, as if I had done ſome generous or humane Act myſelf.

I do aſſure you, that often in the extreme Fondneſs of my Heart, when I have looked at, and heard you with the ſincereſt Delight, I have been ready to burſt into Tears, from reflecting that the Happineſs, I then enjoyed, might ſome [63] Time prove an Aggravation of my Miſery; and ſure there is no Anguiſh equal to that, which ariſes from our departed Joys. I do not re⯑member I was ever ſo much affected at any thing I read, as at a Paſſage of Young's, which I met with during the Interregnum of our Loves.

But I will have done with this melancholy Sub⯑ject; and I ſincerely hope it will never more occur to my Remembrance.

Your Brother and Siſter have been with me all Day; ſo that I muſt quit you ſooner than I would. Set down all the Blots and Blunders to their Account; for though my Thoughts are fixed on you, yet being obliged to converſe with them, makes both my Hands and Eyes to wander. They have been vaſtly civil to me, ſince I came to Town.

I intreat you will inquire about my Saturday's Letter; and believe me, my deareſt Life,

LETTER CCI. HENRY to FRANCES.

I AM concerned at the Account of your Health: You ſay you do not know what ails you; but that you are ſick, and have loſt your Appetite, and Spirits. Now take it thus, and you will find the true State of your Diſ⯑order: You have loſt your Spirits; conſequently your Appetite; and then it is no Wonder you are ſick. But the Cauſe of this Progreſſion is yet to be related; namely, the Fretting, you have humoured yourſelf in, upon this late Oc⯑caſion. I wiſh, my dear Fanny, I could make you as good a Philoſopher in Practice, as you are in Theory. You have made me both; for which I am more beholden to you, than to my Mother for my Birth. She made me but an Animal; you have made me a Man.

I deſire you will ſend me Lady —'s Letter, when you have anſwered it. I am intereſted in the ſmalleſt Circumſtance relating to you, and am vain of every Compliment paid you.

I think there is ſomething very pretty in your Sentiments about Friendſhip. You have carried the Thought farther, than I had ever conſidered it, by ſaying, even our Faults, or Foibles, we [65] ſhould not hide, in ſuch an Intercourſe; but I think there is even a certain Honeſty in ſuch an open Dealing; for Friendſhip, ſuch as deſerves that Name, is an Union for Life; and, as in the meaner Partnerſhips of Trade, we ſhould reveal the Drawbacks of Debts, or Inſufficiencies upon our Stock, how much more nice ought we to be in this noble and generous Society! I think, with you, that Perſons of different Sexes are moſt likely to preſerve the beſt, and moſt laſting Friendſhips; and really believe, that, in the very few Marriage States, which can be deemed happy, the moſt perfect Concords of this Kind are to be found. That Gentleneſs of Manners, and Complacency of Behaviour, which you mention, may be conſidered as the Eſſence of Virtue, rather than the mere Orna⯑ment of it; and the French Writers treat of them in this pretty Light, under the Title of "Les petites Morales." If ſtrict Philoſophy will not admit of this Expreſſion, they may cer⯑tainly be allowed the Marks of the moſt amiable Virtues; as they are ſure Signs of Good-nature, Humility, and Humanity. As ſome of the Sages ſaid, that Virtue need but put on a viſible Form, to bewitch Mankind with her Charms, I think, that, what is meant by the Term, Good-breed⯑ing, muſt certainly be the Dreſs, ſhe would ap⯑pear in. Mere naked Virtue, perhaps, may be a fit Contemplation for an Angel; but ſhe muſt [66] be cloathed, with Decency, to be admired by Man. A bleſſed Spirit, as it has no ‘Senſe to ake,’ can bear the tranſcendent Splendor of Truth; but her Glory is too dazzling for the human Mind to bear without a Veil; as we look at the Sun through a ſmoaked Glaſs, and are obliged to uſe Shades, to mark the Beauties of Proportion.

Upon this Occaſion, has happily occurred to me, Part of the moſt noble Deſcriptions of the State of the Bleſſed, that can be conceived; though it was imagined, by an unenlightened Heathen, Plotinus, a Philoſopher of the Platonic Sect. A Tranſlation will ſerve you, as well as the Original.

‘In Heaven, the bleſſed Inhabitants enjoy a happy Tranquillity, having Truth itſelf for the Author of their Being, for their Eſſence and Support. They ſee Things there, not only as they are produced, but contemplate them in their firſt Principles, and behold themſelves in thoſe about them; for there all Things are obvious and perſpicuous, nothing obſcure, nothing oppoſite: All is conſpicuous to all, intrinſical throughout; for Light every-where blends with Light: Every one has every thing in himſelf, and beholds the ſame in others: All Things then are every-where, and immenſe Splendor ſhines through all: Motion there is perfectly pure; for one Mo⯑tion [67] does not impede another: Reſt alſo there is never diſturbed by Change; for it is not blended with unſtable Nature: There dwells Beauty in the Abſtract, independent of Form, or Matter. We may farther preſume, that thoſe, who behold theſe Things, can never be fatigued in the Contemplation of them; nor can any Satiety occur, to occaſion any Fatigue; for there will be no Emptineſs in any one, which, by being filled and ſa⯑tiated, may put an End to their Enjoyment.’

I have here given you the Senſe of this beau⯑tiful Paſſage; though, I am afraid, I have but poorly imitated the Spirit of it. The whole Author is extremely fine; and this is but a very ſmall Part of the great Deſcription, he has ſo gloriouſly attempted; but it was all, which fairly occurred to me upon the Subject of this Letter, and, as I thought, had ſome Relation to it. Adieu!

LETTER CCII. FRANCES to HENRY.

THE Paſſage, you quote from Plotinus, is indeed a fine one. I have never met with any thing, which gives ſo ſtrong, and beautiful an Idea of a future State. What a [68] Diſgrace to our modern Philoſophers and Di⯑vines, who have the Light of Revealed Re⯑ligion for their Guide, to be ſo far outdone by the noble Spirit, and Blaze, of unenlightened Heatheniſm.

I look upon Les petites Morales to be as ab⯑ſolutely neceſſary, to make a Man happy in this Life, as true Morality, to intitle him to, or render him capable of Happineſs in the next.

There is ſomething ſo extremely elegant and tender in the firſt Part of your ſecond Letter, as would render Life pleaſing, under the ſevereſt Agonies, if, by enduring them, I might repay ſuch Goodneſs. Indeed, thou deareſt, kindeſt, beſt of Men, I will do all I can for the Re⯑covery and Preſervation of that Health, whoſe only Charm to me is, being dear to you. I wiſh I could tell you I was better. I think I grow worſe every Day; but I do not make the leaſt Doubt of my Recovery, for there is nothing dangerous in my Diſorder; though I ſuffer more than I thought my Conſtitution could poſſibly bear. I am convinced I ſhould mend, imme⯑diately, if you were with me. This may ap⯑pear childiſh; but ſick Folks, and Children, are fanciful alike. Tell me then, thou dear Phy⯑ſician to my Soul and Body, when wilt thou give me new Life, and Health? I conſider myſelf in the ſame Situation as the little But⯑terfly, you mention, inſenſible to every thing [69] round me; or rather, like Promotheus's Man of Clay,

I can, no more than you, determine, whether it is kind, or cruel, to prolong the Life of your little Favourite. What does it ſubſiſt on, during the Time of it's natural Exiſtence? If you know, and can provide it with natural Suſte⯑nance, we may ſuppoſe it dies only for Want of the Sun's Heat; then, to revive it with an artificial Warmth cannot be Cruelty: But if it's Food, as I believe, be of the Summer's Pride, and is not now to be found in the vegetable World, I fear the poor little Inſect ſuffers by your Fondneſs, as Annihilation is preferable to Miſery. Beſides, I fancy a Butterfly does not die; but, according to the Pythagorean Syſtem, changes it's Form, and Being. This I am not quite clear in; though I have met with ſome poetical Simile, that warrants this Opinion.

To conſider our preſent State of Exiſtence, as rational Beings, who hope for a glorious Im⯑mortality, it muſt appear the higheſt Act of Folly to aim at lengthening it, even for a Mo⯑ment: It is as abſurd, as to ſuppoſe a Priſoner ſhould deſire to continue in a Dungeon, when he may have Liberty to quit it, and enjoy all the Delights of Life; Yet were there any [70] Perſon, who had been born and bred in ſuch a diſmal Situation, that had entered into Ties and Connections with Wretches, as unhappy as himſelf, he would, I dare ſay, feel a ſtrong Re⯑luctance at entering into a happier State, when he muſt part from thoſe, who had been Partners in his Miſery, and all the Solace of it. So we, though Providence has wiſely ordered, that Diſ⯑appointments, Pain, and Loſs of Friends ſhould, by Degrees, unlooſe the Hold we take of this dim Spot; that our Loves, our Friendſhips, ſhould be torn aſunder; that even our Deſires and Paſſions ſhould decay, and leave us ſcarce a Wiſh on Earth; yet ſtripped of, and aban⯑doned by all, that makes Life pleaſing; left, as it were, naked, on a barren Shore; when we have nothing elſe to graſp at, we lay Hold on our own frail and feveriſh Beings, and ſeem to find a Pain, in being ſeparated from Pain.

There are five or ſix People talking round me. It is impoſſible for me to know what I write: But this I know, that I live but in the earneſt Hope of being your's here and hereafter.

LETTER CCIII.

YOU may ſee, by my Paper, that I am not at home, and conſequently have not your laſt Letter with me, to anſwer; therefore you can expect no other Reaſon for my writing to you now, but to ſhew you I would not neglect it, even for one Poſt, though unprepared with my beſt Help, your Love-inſpiring, Senſe-inditing Epiſtles.

The [...] dined with me To-day, and hurried me home with them this Evening. I would have excuſed myſelf, but that I avoid the Appearance of any thing which looks queer; and I am apt to ſuſpect, that a Perſon has but the Appearance of Senſe, Courage, or Philoſophy, who affects to manifeſt them upon trifling Occaſions. I declare that I have, of late, ſo entirely given myſelf up to the charming Pleaſures of Solitude, that I begin to endure Company, as one plays a bad Hand of Cards, not for the Enjoyment of the Sport, but merely to keep one's Self within the Game. This Turn of Mind has ſometimes ſo alarmed me, that I have argued the Point with myſelf, pro and con; but have declared for the Pleaſures of retired and philoſophic Leiſure, upon this [72] Reaſoning, that it is poſſible ſome Accident or Misfortune of Life may hereafter deprive me of the Enjoyment of Society; for few and rare Friends are found at the Poor, the Sick, or the Priſoner's Levee; but Death alone can rob me of the Heart-approving, rational Joys of Soli⯑tude. If I quitted the Converſe of the World out of an Auſtereneſs of Manners, or a Severity of Morals, I might juſtly appear in the uncouth and unphiloſophic Light of a Miſanthrope; but when I retire, in order to prepare myſelf for a better, I ſeem to myſelf to act the Part of one, who takes a larger Scope in view, than the ſcanty Horizon of this narrow Globe. I retire, to converſe with you, and to make Aſſignations with thee, my charming Seraph, where I ſhall have Myriads of unjealous Rivals in thy Love, in the Harmony of thy Senſe and Virtue. It is you alone, who can make me endure Society; as it was you only, who have inſpired me with thoſe Helps, which can enable me to live alone. You need not be apprehenſive, that ſuch ab⯑ſtracted Speculations, as theſe, can ever abate the Warmth of my Affection to you; for what is my Love to my deareſt Fanny, but that Taſte for Virtue, which I hinted at, in a former Letter, and that high Admiration for Beauty, Harmony, and Order, which is the proper Contemplation of the truly philoſophic Mind? So that even my Reliſh for every thing that is amiable, may be [73] conſidered but as a Part of that Love and Eſteem, which I bear to you.

I ſlipt away from Cards to write to you; and the Bell rings for Supper: So I muſt unwil⯑lingly conclude my Letter; though moſt wil⯑lingly conclude myſelf, my charming Girl,

LETTER CCIV.

THE Dependence, you expreſs, upon my doing every thing for our mutual Happi⯑neſs, was not neceſſary to encourage me to do ſo, upon all Occaſions; but, if I needed any Inducement, that Confidence alone would be ſufficient to oblige me to it; and I ſhall never attempt to over-rule your Will, but to better inform it; or the more effectually to anſwer the great End of all my Thoughts and Actions, namely, your Happineſs and Eſtabliſhment, and my own, only through ſuch charming Means. My not going to London before this, is one Inſtance, I may give, that I prefer both our Intereſts, before our Pleaſure; and, if I have not fixed the Day, at your frequent Requeſt, it is [74] becauſe I cannot be certain of it yet; however, I can anſwer you, that, before ten Days from this, I ſhall have the unfeigned Delight of ſeeing my ſweet Girl.

I cannot help being angry with you for ſuch an ungenerous and impious Wiſh, as you make in your laſt Letter. What Advantage could poſſibly accrue to me, from your Death, who, as I ſaid before, only intend, nay, only wiſh or deſire, and am only capable of Happineſs through your Means? How have I undeſerved from you, or what Merits have thoſe Perſons you ſo falſely ſtile my Friends, toward you, that their Satisfaction is ſo unkindly and unwar⯑rantably preferred before mine? What Com⯑fort could they afford me, for your Loſs? or where elſe could I expect to find it? It is too late in Life for me to begin the World anew: My Habits are grown too ſtrong to be counter⯑acted now: What a Turn muſt my whole Set of Ideas take! and how many refined Pleaſures muſt I unlearn, or loſe the Reliſh of, before I could be ſatisfied with the Enjoyment of any other Woman! I have often quarrelled with you, upon ſuch Subjects, and take it very un⯑kindly that you will not recollect yourſelf a little, before you treat me with ſo much Ingra⯑titude and Ungeneroſity. Indeed I is angry with U, in Spight of all the Letters of the Al⯑phabet, from Alpha to Omega; which is the [75] Order your dear Idea preſents itſelf to my Thoughts in. Repent, thou Suicide and Ho⯑micide in one!

Remember to write to me by Tueſday's Poſt, directed to —; and on Thurſday direct to me at —, which is my Way home. I will not excuſe you theſe two Poſts, becauſe I ſhall want your Company on the Road.

Adieu, my Treaſure! for, by a Turn upon the Words of Scripture, I may call you ſo, as my Heart is with you.

LETTER CCV.

THE ſincere Pleaſure I received from my dear Harry's laſt Letter is, indeed, ſuf⯑ficient to make me wiſh for Life, nay, a long one, to enable me to repay his generous Ten⯑derneſs. Believe me, my ſweet Love, your Kindneſs is not thrown away; for all the poor Return, which I can make, is moſt ſincerely your's, in Thought, in Word, in Deed:—And, if I really am ſo bleſt, as to contribute to your Happineſs, well may you call me ungenerous and ungrateful, for wiſhing to exchange that Bliſs, even for the Joys of Immortality. The Tranſport, which I feel, from thinking I am dear to you, is much too great to be expreſſed. [76] I am, I ever will be your's: Diſpoſe my Life, my Being, as you pleaſe: Thou art the Lord of me.—Haſte then, thou dear Author of my Happineſs, haſte to complete it by thy much-loved, much-longed-for Preſence!

I am ſtill une pauvre Solitaire; and look upon myſelf to be the trueſt female Recluſe, that ever was; as my Confinement, Solitude, and Faſting, are dictated by Choice, not Neceſſity:—Yet I am afraid this voluntary Reſtraint is not founded in Reaſon, or Virtue. My Moderation may be compared to that of an Epicure, who, though he may have a good Appetite, eats ſparingly of a coarſe Dinner; but provide him with Delica⯑cies, and he ſhews the Glutton. So I go ſeldom abroad, ſee no Company at home, never think of public Diverſions, and paſs my Life in a State of Indifference to the Objects which are within my Reach; but, were it in my Power to enjoy the Feaſt of Reaſon, in thy Converſe, I ſhould quickly loſe the Appearance of Self-Denial, and gladly indulge myſelf in the extreme Enjoyment of the higheſt Pleaſures—thoſe of ſeeing, hearing, loving, and being loved by thee. Adieu!

LETTER CCVI.

I AM at a Loſs for Epithets fond or expreſſive enough to addreſs you with; but muſt refer ſelf to the Intuition of angelic Minds, to ſhew you how far ſhort the warmeſt Terms of human Language fall of that ſincere Affection and tender Love I bear you.

I am ſurpriſed at the Weakneſs of your Con⯑cern upon my mentioning my dying; for ſurely a Man is not the nearer, though he may be the better prepared for it, by his making a Will; nay, even the very Approach of it ought to alarm us no more, than it ſhould a fond Parent, that his Child was growing taller; for Death, in the Philoſophy of a Man, or the Hope of a Chriſtian, is to be conſidered, not as a Change of our State, but an Improvement of it. How⯑ever, I will indulge your Tenderneſs ſo far, as to ſpeak no more upon this Head; but am pleaſed to find I am even with you, for ſome unkind Hints, much ſtronger than mine, upon this Subject, in one of your late Letters.

I have been to ſee the large Manufacture at —, as I have engaged in the ſame; and it has given me great Satisfaction; though it would make any one, of leſs Spirit than myſelf, deſpair of bringing ſo vaſt a Work to Perfection, from [78] the complexed Machinery, various Buſineſs, in⯑tenſe Application, and large Sums of Money, and Credit, which are neceſſary to carry it on; yet, believe me, that every Difficulty, which oc⯑curred, has but ſtrengthened my Reſolution to purſue it. It would ſurpriſe and ſtartle your Philoſophy, at the ſame Time, to ſee ſo many different Machines performing the Parts of ra⯑tional Agents, and requiring no farther Aſ⯑ſiſtance from Man, than to ſet them in Motion, and to preſerve their Courſes regular, which is no more than what often Man from Man re⯑quires, as Patients from Phyſicians: Nay, ſome of them, like a Perſon in Health, perform their Parts by the mere Help of the Elements only; and, if the ſole Difference between theſe and Animals be, that the firſt regularly labours to purſue the Deſign of it's Formation, while the other, through Caprice, is capable of diſappoint⯑ing the Ends of it's Creation, I do not think that living Creatures have much to boaſt of, in the Superiority of their Mechaniſm. Man, indeed, as exerciſed in the Contemplation of Truth, Beauty, Harmony, and Order, and employed in the Practice of Virtue, Morality, and Religion, is, in Reality, a noble and exalted Creature; but the many-headed Monſter, the vulgar Herd, who are inſenſible to theſe great Advantages, I take to be a more imperfect Inſtrument, than a Windmill or a Loom.

Adieu! Adieu!

LETTER CCVII.

I AM juſt returned from my Expedition to Scotland; and, to give you my Opinion of it, I need only ſay, that, ſince I was obliged to go, I am glad it is over.

You cannot imagine, in what Light every thing, both at Bed and Board, appeared to me, who have been uſed, all my Life, to travel through the beſt Roads in England; for, though I am no great Epicure, yet I look upon Cleanli⯑neſs not to be any extraordinary Luxury; though Mandeville calls it ſo, when he wants to help out a diſingenuous Argument.

I have rode ſeveral Days through this quon⯑dam Kingdom; and was ſo perſuaded, that I ſtrayed into Gulliver's Country of Hounhymns, that I was almoſt tempted to alight from my Horſe, and ſwear Allegiance to him; for I could not perceive a Grain of Corn, through all the Fields, but Oats; nor any one Houſe that was too good for a Stable. And when at laſt I chanced to eſpy a Garden of Wheat, I rejoiced, like the ſhipwrecked Sailor, who, thinking him⯑ſelf caſt away upon a deſart Iſland, when he ob⯑ſerved a Circle deſcribed on the Sands, cried out, ‘Courage, my Friends; for human Crea⯑tures inhabit here.’

[80]There is a Saying among Foreigners, who obſerve the Cleverneſs of the Generality of the Scotch Gentlemen, who travel abroad, that Scot⯑land keeps all her Fools at home: But I think they are miſtaken in this Particular; for, really, thoſe of that Nation, whom I have had any Sort of Commerce with, are "ne Feuls." I ſhall not preſs this Remark farther, as I think all na⯑tional Reflections both unphiloſophical and un⯑juſt. I ſhall take Leave of you now; for, as my ingenious Hoſteſs of the Garter often ex⯑preſſes herſelf, I am tired after my Fatigue.

LETTER CCVIII.

YOU deſired to hear from me on Wedneſday; but you may ſee my Impatience, in writing to you a Poſt ſooner.

I had a very direct and obſtinate Wind in my Face, all the Day, and very diſagreeable Weather of Rain and Hail; however I jogged on hither, to ſhew that neither Wind or Weather ſhould get the better of me. I ſuf⯑fered greatly from the Cholic; but chewed [81] Rheubarb all the Way. Mutton Chops was the Word; and now your Health goes round; which is a juſt Manner of ſpeaking, as I pledge myſelf to that Toaſt, every Glaſs.

I direct this to India, becauſe I know you are to dine there To-morrow, and might be from home, before the Poſt reached your Lodgings. My Love to the Company; and remember that the Council of Six is ſtill complete, as I have left my Deputy with you: So obſerve, that, upon every Queſtion, you are to claim the Right of a double Voice, which is the ſame as if I were preſent; for I am ſure I ſhall never differ from you, in any Opinion. ‘Her Taſte was his own.’

Adieu!

LETTER CCIX.

I AM ſtill a poor lonely Wretch. Judge, from your own Heart, how earneſtly I wiſh for you, and how tenderly and conſtantly my Thoughts are employed in lamenting your Ab⯑ſence, and the cruel Neceſſity which occaſions it. It is now a Month, by common Calcula⯑tion, ſince we parted; what a Length of Time, when meaſured by the Pangs of Abſence! and [82] yet you do not ſpeak of coming to me. I envy you the complicated Hurry of Buſineſs, you are engaged in: It divides your Anxiety, and pre⯑vents your thinking too earneſtly on any one Subject. I rejoice at it, while I feel the Unea⯑ſineſs of having my every Sentiment and Idea fixed on the only Object which can give me Pain or Pleaſure, thy dear Self alone.

Your kind, your charming Letter has, indeed, raiſed my Spirits to an higher Degree of Chear⯑fulneſs, than they have known, for ſome Time paſt: But while the elegant Tenderneſs, which you there expreſs, elates my Heart to a kind of Rapture, it, neceſſarily increaſes my Sorrow for our Separation:

My deareſt Life may be perfectly aſſured, that there is no Enjoyment, however dear to me, that I would not readily ſacrifice to the Pleaſure of obliging him: For this Reaſon, I was picqued at your ſeeming to ſuſpect me of Irregularity. Take my Word, that the dear little Object of our mutual Care, and, I hope, Bliſs; ſhall not ſuffer through any Fault of mine, that I can avoid. I am in Bed every Night by Twelve, and up at Nine. If my lying ſo long be a Fault, I will not cover it with a Falſehood: But if you knew the many reſtleſs and uneaſy Hours I paſs in Bed, you would more wonder at my riſing ſo early, than [83] at my lying ſo late. You muſt allow ſomething to the Weakneſs of my Condition, and conſider the vaſt Difference between this, and my former Way of living; and you will find my Nine almoſt equal to your Five in the Morning.

I am ſurprized — has not wrote to you; but not at your Sentiments on the Occaſion. They are conſiſtent with that good Senſe and Steadineſs of Mind, which accompanies my dear practic Philoſopher through every Action of his Life.

Adieu, my deareſt Harry! May we never be able to determine the only Point, which I hope, and believe, we ſhall ever diſpute on! and may each inceſſantly endeavour, through the Courſe of our Lives, to make the only coveted or con⯑teſted Superiority between us (that of loving moſt) appear doubtful, even to our lateſt Mo⯑ments.

Adieu!

LETTER CCX.

I PITY you not for being alone, knowing your Mind, and the Uſe you are capable to make of it; though, by your mentioning your Solitude in ſuch a forlorn Way, I am afraid you [84] have not a proper Set of Books to read. Indeed your preſent Study is but thinly ſcattered with them; and mere Amuſement is but a ſorry Comfort in Solitude; which requires the beſt Helps of Reflection, moral Philoſophy, and Re⯑ligion, to ſupport; which light Reading is but ill qualified to afford us. I do not mean to make you an abſtracted Enthuſiaſt, by the Study I ſhall recommend to you: But what I ſhall pre⯑ſcribe will not only qualify you for Retirement, but for the World too; at leaſt, for that Part of it, which is worthy of your Senſe, Spirit, and Virtue, to hold Society with. When you have engaged in ſuch a Courſe of dead Authors, you will have the leſs Reaſon to lament my Abſence; for you will there find, much better, that Senſe, Philoſophy, and Virtue, which you are ſo partial to compliment me with; and the real Excel⯑lencies of thoſe Things may, perhaps, be as dead in me, as they are in them.

I do not mention my going to you, becauſe the Time was fixed already for that, which is about the Time of your—&c. and you know my Situation too well, to deſire it ſeriouſly ſooner.

My Pet, you ſurely could not imagine I ex⯑pected you ſhould be up at Five in the Morning. I only mentioned my own Practice, to vaunt myſelf, not to preſcribe to you; and ſhall be ſatisfied with cutting you off only one Hour in [85] the Morning: But, to ſhew you how indul⯑gent I ſhall be to you, at the ſame Time, I will allow you to go to Bed an Hour, or even two, earlier, at Night.

— has played a very knaviſh Prank lately, with Regard to me. Tom can inform you: But I ſhall not expoſe him, for two extraordinary Reaſons; becauſe I do not believe any other Man would decline it; and becauſe I have a ſincere Picque to him, upon an Occaſion, I mentioned to you, ſome Time ago.

LETTER CCXI.

THOUGH I make no Doubt but your good Senſe and Philoſophy will prevent your being uneaſy, from the Account you re⯑ceived of my Illneſs; yet I think it my Duty to inform you, that I am better, than when you heard laſt I believe few People ever ſuffered more, in the Time, than I did from Tueſday Noon, to the ſame Hour on Wedneſday: But I make no Account of all I have endured, ſince it has pleaſed the Almighty to ſpare the dear [86] Life, which I am infinitely more anxious for, than my own. I hope ſtill to preſerve it; and am determined rather to ſacrifice myſelf than it. I have four of your Letters before me; but cannot pretend to anſwer any of them. I write in Bed, and can hardly ſee.

You ſay I talk of dying in a ſplenetic Way. You are miſtaken, Harry: Death has as few Terrors for me, as for moſt People. I talked of his Approach, as a Thing expected, but not feared: If I betrayed any Weakneſs, it muſt have been from the Thoughts of parting with you, not Life; for indeed I have as little Reaſon to be fond of a painful Exiſtence, as you have to be "diſpleaſed and diſobliged," at my being concerned for our preſent or future Sepa⯑ration. I am of Opinion, that it is Strength of Body, not Mind, I want, to render me agreeable to you: If I were a Foot taller, and propor⯑tionably robuſt, I ſhould be a cleverer Perſon than I am; but ſince ‘we cannot, by taking Thought, add one Cubit to our Stature,’ it is in vain to complain of my ſmall Size, or Want of Strength or Spirits.

I ſhall not mention your Coming any more. I have already ſpoke my Sentiments. Your own Diſcretion be your Guide.

Adieu, my dear Stoic! May I, if I live, be able to acquire the Strength, you wiſh me poſ⯑ſeſſed of! or may you, in ſome Degree, become [87] more indulgent, as better uſed to my Weakneſs and Deficiencies, both of Mind and Body!

LETTER CCXII. FRANCES to HENRY.

I SEND you Mr. Lyttelton's Monody, which I am charmed with, though I think there appears more Poetry than Love in it: Not that the Grief is not well, but that it is too well ex⯑preſſed; which a Perſon who really felt could not, perhaps, ſo aptly deſcribe: And methinks I perceive more of the Poet's Art, than of the Mourner's Sorrow.

If, indeed, he be truly ſincere, I declare, that I would rather have Mr. Lyttelton my Widower, than be the Wife of any other Man in the World, except yourſelf: For then I ſhould have had the higheſt Happineſs this World can boaſt of, the being beloved and eſteemed by a Man of Senſe, Taſte, and Virtue; the Merit of which muſt inſure the Happineſs of the next, which, if higher than that, riſes above the Power of human Wiſh to deſire, or of human Wit to conceive.

There is one Criterion of Mr. Lyttelton's Sin⯑cerity, which I have eſtabliſhed in my own [88] Mind; and that is his marrying, or not mar⯑rying again.

Adieu!

LETTER CCXIII.

YOU tell me, that your Picture is improved into your own Likeneſs at laſt; then take it home immediately, leſt the Painter ſhould attempt to cheat me with a Helen of Guido's.

Poetry and Painting, they ſay, are Siſter Arts; but Hudſon has ſo raiſed my Jealouſy by his Succeſs, that I ſhall endeavour to make them Rivals too.

LETTER CCXIV. HENRY to FRANCES.

I RECEIVED the Monody, and am as much charmed with it as you are; but I could not help ſmiling at your jealous Criticiſm. I do not look upon the Poem in the Light that you do; for it affected me in a higher Concern, that it was poſſible for your Death to inſpire me with every Sentiment of Grief there expreſſed, without the Poetry to publiſh them to the World.

To a Perſon uſed to read and write Poetry, Figures, Alluſions, and Numbers are as familiar, as plain Proſe is to other People: ‘—For the Numbers came.’

Poets have generally pleaded their Incapacity, on Account of Grief; but this was always in [90] order to raiſe the Merit of the Poem. Tickel ſays,

However, he has contrived to ſigh out as beautiful an Elegy, as ever was written in any Language.

Waller ſaid, that Poets excel only in Fiction; but this was rather an ingenious Apology for writing better on Cromwell than on Charles: It had more of Wit than Criticiſm in it; or, if there was any thing of the latter, it muſt be true only of Heroic Poetry; becauſe neither the Actions, Virtues, or real Characters of Men are high enough to adorn the Epic Verſe.

But there is a Mixture of Tenderneſs and Dignity, which form the Characteriſtic of Elegy, that agrees perfectly well with Figures, which it naturally inſpires; and the more ſincere the Grief, the bolder will theſe be of courſe.

There is one Authority, which puts an End to any further Criticiſm upon this Subject. Horace ſays, ‘If you would make me weep, you muſt firſt drop Tears yourſelf:’ Which ſhews, that the Beauty of Elegy muſt riſe in Proportion to the Sincerity of the Mourner.

I remember the elder Palma, whoſe Taſte in Muſic I was fond of, ſat down, one Day, to compoſe ſomething for me; perhaps I was in Love at that Time, for I deſired he would make [91] it expreſſive of the moſt melting Tenderneſs: Upon which he replied, "Il faut pleurer donc;" and, as the Italians have their Paſſions at Will, he began to ſigh, and actually wrought himſelf up to a Flow of Tears, while he was writing.

But I might have ſaved you the Trouble of all this Criticiſm, only by referring you to Mr. Lyt⯑telton's Character; who is far from being ſo flight a Man, as to play the Poet upon ſo ſerious and affecting a Subject: And there is one Particular, which proves to me his Sincerity beyond all Doubt; which is, that, among a great Choice and Variety of his truly claſſical and poetic Writings, this Poem is, I think, the Chef d'Oeuvre.

All the Fault I find with Mr. Lyttelton, is, that he did not under-write himſelf upon this Occaſion; for there is a certain gallant Pride in an ingenuous Nature, which tempts it to fall ſhort even of the Praiſe it thinks is due, and is willing to beſtow, leſt it ſhould be miſtaken for Adulation. However, there is, at the ſame Time, a certain Fondneſs in the Lover, which inclines him to give Immortality to the Object of his Paſſion, which is not to be hoped for, without an Exertion of the fulleſt Powers of Poeſy.

I pity a Poet's Grief more than any other Man's; for his natural Warmth, Tenderneſs of Sentiment, and Livelineſs of Imagination, give [92] Sorrow a Power of ſinking deeper in his Heart, than others can poſſibly be affected with. When a plain Man loſes a Miſtreſs, Wife, Child, or Friend, he laments merely for the Loſs of ſo much Property: But, when theſe dear Con⯑nections are torn off from a Perſon of a delicate Taſte, he feels as if he had loſt Part of himſelf, Animae Dimidium — nay worſe, for the Remain⯑der is a Burden to him.

Your Criterion I will not admit of; for a Man, who is ſincere in his Grief for the Loſs of a Wife, is the more likely to marry again. When Pleaſures are flown, Nature ſtrongly ſolicits the Recovery of them: The chaſte nuptial Joys engroſs the whole Man, and form his Taſte and Sentiments entirely to ſuch ſocial Enjoyments, which, by fond Indulgence, become at laſt his ſole Scheme of Happineſs; and when thoſe charming Ties are diſſolved, he has the World, as it were, to begin anew; and it is ſurely then more natural, and more rational too, to endeavour to renew the Pleaſures we have been ſo well acquainted with, and approved of, than to attempt a ſpiritleſs Succedaneum to them.

So that, if ever your Criſis ſhould come to paſs, we ought not to doubt his Sincerity to the laſt Wife, but rather ſay, that he had paid a very high Compliment to his future one.

LETTER CCXV.

THE Heat of the Day, and the Coolneſs of my unperforming Nag, obliged me to ſtop here to Dinner. When the Sun's Strength declines, and my Horſe recovers his, I ſhall make a deſperate Puſh for St. Alban's.

Among the Parcel of looſe Papers, which I put into my Pocket, for Amuſement on the Road, I find the incloſed Letter from Oliver Cromwell to his Wife; which I ſend you, as Part of a Comment upon Hudibras; which I left you reading. You may obſerve, from this Letter, the hypocritical and fanatic Stile of the leading Men at that Aera, which will give you Light into the Characters of Knight and 'Squire.

Though it is but three Hours ſince we parted, I found I could not eat my Dinner without writing to you; for my Love is ſtronger than my Hunger. The Eagerneſs of Appetite ſome⯑times makes me omit a Grace, and Sleep too often inclines me to neglect a Prayer at Night; but at Bed, or Board, I never forget to think of you, or ceaſe to wiſh you, moſt earneſtly, a Participation of ſuch Entertainment, as I can afford you at either.

I ſhall call at —, in my Road, this Evening; where I expect to find the good Lady [94] in ſuch a Condition, ‘as is her Cuſtom always in the Afternoon.’

There is ſomething remarkably odious in this Vice in Women, as Cuſtom and Education are againſt it, and that it has not even the Excuſe of Nature or Temptation on it's Side.

For my Part, I ſhould think the Embraces of a Harlot chaſter than the Fondneſs of ſuch a Wife.

What a ſhocking Thing muſt it be to any Woman's Reflection, at a ſober Interval, to think, that, by this Vice, ſhe has rendered herſelf the Subject of Luſt, without being the Object of Deſire! For ſuch muſt be the Con⯑ſequence, when Paſſions are inflamed, while Reaſon is extinct, and, as the Wife of Bath ſays, ‘There is a Rule I never knew to fail, &c.’ And what a dreadful Situation muſt that unhappy Man be in, who thinks he has no Security over his Wife's Chaſtity, but the natural Abhorrence which her Vice creates! For, in ſuch a State, one could only think her a fit Paramour for an Incubus, which is a Species of Daemon, that is reported to hold criminal Commerce with dead Bodies. But enough of this vile Subject.

LETTER CCXVI.

I RECEIVED your Letter of laſt Poſt, wrote by your own dear Hand, which gave me extreme Tranſport. What your Secretary ſaid of your Health, or rather of your Life, which I was for a thouſand Years alarmed about, could not make my Mind eaſy, 'till I had the Confirmation from yourſelf. How I paſſed the Age between the two laſt Poſts, would be too tedious a Detail to trouble you with now.

I was ill for ſeveral Days, of the worſt Sort of Illneſs, an Inattention to Reading, and a Lowneſs of Spirits. It was upon theſe Hints that I wrote to you for the Precedent of a Will, tho' I pretended it was for another Perſon, for fear of alarming you; and you cannot imagine what a Shock it gave me, that I had deferred a Matter of ſuch Conſequence to you, and to our dear Pledge, ſo long. I wrote that Letter from my Bed, and lay down between every Paragraph.

What a Sympathy was between us at the ſame Time! for I think we fell ill, and reco⯑vered, at the ſame Inſtant. How lucky it was too, that neither of us knew the other was ill, 'till we had both recovered!

[96]I am no farther diſpleaſed at your having made Uſe of our Money, than that you ſhould mention it. In a Fortnight, from this Date, I deſign to be in Town; neither my Health or Buſineſs will permit me ſooner.

Put up the incloſed along with my Papers. Farewell, my redeemed, my deareſt Life!

The Paper, which he incloſed, was his Will, in the Wrapper of which was the following Writing:

There was alſo incloſed, in the Will, the following Poem of Pope's:

LETTER CCXVII.

INDEED, my Harry, I wiſh to live for no other Reaſon, but to make you amends for all your Goodneſs to me: God grant my Power may be in any Proportion equal to my Will, and we ſhall be the happieſt Couple breathing: And, indeed, I think I may, without Vanity, ſay, I know no two Perſons, who ſeem better qualified for ſuch a State, than we are; and therefore we muſt be thoroughly miſerable, if we are not entirely happy; for both our Feelings and Sentiments are too delicate and refined, to be capable of that Indifference, which the generality of Mortals paſs their Lives in. For which Reaſon, I am not diſpleaſed that your Situation and Circumſtances prevented our living together, before I was thoroughly acquainted [102] with you, or myſelf; but, though I think I might now ſafely anſwer for my future Conduct, I own my moſt fervent Wiſhes are ſometimes damped with fearing, that, if ever we ſhould live together, you may grow weary of me, or, as Milton phraſes it, ‘Too much Converſe thee perhaps may ſatiate.’ However, I more often lament the ſad Neceſſity which parts us; and I think you more to be pitied in this Separation, even than I am, ſup⯑poſing our Love to be quite equal. I have the Pains of Abſence to combat with, which are perhaps as much as I can bear: You have theſe alſo, joined to the Reflection of having attached yourſelf to me, for no other Reaſon, but the Hope of finding a ſincere tender Friend, and an agreeable Companion: You have made it my Duty, as well as Inclination, to become the ſole Partner, and chief Solace of your every Care, to ſmooth the rugged Path of Life, and make the Uphill, as well as the Deſcent, leſs painful; nay, even your common Affairs and Oeconomy are ſo ſituated, that you really want a reaſonable Woman, and a faithful Friend, in whom you might confide. Will you not think me vain, if I ſay you are deprived of ſuch a Perſon by our Separation? When I conſider the Opportunities I loſe of endearing myſelf to you by numberleſs nameleſs Acts of Love and [103] Gratitude, I lament each paſſing Moment, and regret my fleeting Youth; for, oh! I want unnumbered Ages, beyond the common Date of Man, to prove my fond, faithful, grateful Soul to thee: Oh! never may the Veil of Paſſion cloud it more.

LETTER CCXVIII.

[...]

What I meant to take Notice of in your Letters was, to reprimand you for even ſup⯑poſing it poſſible I ſhould ever ceaſe to love you. This Subject, which you too often enter upon, always alarms me; for, if ever I ſhould love you leſs, it muſt be owing to yourſelf. I aſſure you, that it never once enters into my Head, but when you mention it; and, upon ſuch Occaſions, I naturally reflect upon every Circumſtance, in our paſt, preſent, and future Lives, which might poſſibly effect ſuch a Change; which is, by no Means, a healthful Contemplation. On the contrary, when my Thoughts and Reflections are left to my own Guidance, I direct them to your Converſation, [104] to your Letters, to your Kindneſs to, and Con⯑fidence in me: I compare you to any other Woman, and, taking you all in all, give you your Advantage. I beg Leave to put you in Mind, that this is not the firſt Time, by many, that I have warned you againſt this Indiſcretion; but your Wit does not always give Way to your Senſe;

I have taken a great deal of Pains, well re⯑warded, to gain your Love; but have taken a great deal more to teach you how to preſerve mine. That my Happineſs depended upon it, was not ſo ſtrong a Reaſon to me, as that I be⯑lieved yours reſted upon the ſame Foundation: And I have been always more your Friend than your Lover; not by exerting the firſt Character, which my Senſe and Reaſon ſufficiently inclined me to; but by reſtraining the latter, which my Heart ſo ſtrongly impelled me to: And my beſt Love, my firſt, my laſt, my only Love, ſhall always find the Exerciſe of both theſe Characters exerted toward her, while there is one Quality in her charming Compoſition, which can be the proper Subject of either; or, rather, ſhe is very near being that clever Creature, which is ca⯑pable of happily blending both theſe Affections in one; for which nothing more is neceſſary, but to uſe that Underſtanding, upon all Occa⯑ſions, [105] which you are capable of exerting upon ſome: Nor did I mean to be ridiculous, when I ſaid you ſhould not comb your Head, or call a Coach, without conſulting it; for you cannot imagine to what mean and trifling Offices good Senſe will condeſcend to accompany us; and, perhaps, it is in what the World eſteem Trifles, that a good Underſtanding ſhould moſt employ itſelf; for great or extraordinary Occaſions ge⯑nerally direct their own Operations.

P. S. There is a Gentleman in the Houſe where I am, at preſent, who has lately read his Recantation, in order to preſerve an Eſtate of about 70 l. per Annum. He has a Brother at Bourdeaux, who is a beneficed Prieſt, from whom he received a Letter this Morning, ſo full of Fire and Brimſtone, that it had almoſt thrown him into a Fit of Deſpair: But I had the good Fortune to quiet his Mind, after a Quarter of an Hour's Converſation; and he begged I would reduce my Reaſoning upon this Subject into the Form of a Letter, which he would copy, and ſend to his Brother. I did ſo; and, as he has juſt done with it, I ſend you the Original incloſed.

LETTER CCXIX.

I HAVE filled one Letter ſo full of Buſineſs, that I had not Room to take Notice of the pretty Part of your laſt; but I ſhall not ſuffer the Poſt to go out without a Letter, intirely in Anſwer to the refined Scruples you hint at in your's.

[110]Your Love for me does not deſtroy your pre⯑ſent Happineſs, but rather conſtitutes it. Thoſe Apprehenſions, and that Uneaſineſs, which ſome⯑times afflict you, are not, indeed, Part of your Happineſs, but are the natural Conſequence of it, in tender and delicate Minds; for Abſence, or Fear of loſing, affects us always, in Pro⯑portion to the Height of our Enjoyments. Now thoſe who deſire their Pleaſures to be leſs, in order to rid themſelves of their Pains, know not what they wiſh for: Apathy is a wretched Ex⯑change for fond Senſations, even with all their Incumbrances; and to prefer ſuch an Indolence of Mind is, as if a Man ſhould refuſe an Eſtate, becauſe it was ſubject to Quit-Rent.

As for your extraordinary Notion, that per⯑haps your Love and Fondneſs for me may af⯑fect your Happineſs hereafter, this muſt be your own Fault, and not the Nature of the Thing, if it ſhould. The Love of God, and the Love of Man, are very different Things, and both made our expreſs Duties, by diſtinct Command⯑ments: Therefore the latter cannot become a Crime, of the Nature you apprehend, even by it's Exceſs; for parallel Lines can never inter⯑fere, though extended infinitely: But the ſmalleſt Portion of mortal Love, or any other worldly Affection, riſes into a Sin, when it interſects, or runs counter to our Love of God, the Duties of Religion, or the Morals of Virtue. Now [111] there is nothing, ſurely, in our chaſte, ſincere, and conſtant Regards, toward each other, which can poſſibly violate any of theſe high Concerns; but rather ſtrengthen us in them, by inſpiring our Hearts with the moſt grateful Senſe, toward Providence, and poſſeſſing our Minds with the warmeſt Devotion and Thankſgiving, to the Almighty, for our mutual Happineſs.

To a Mind rightly formed, the Paths of Heaven are ſtrewn with Roſes, not ſtuck with Thorns:

And the Poſſeſſion of all the Pleaſures of Life, bounded by Reaſon and Religion, beyond which alone we taſte the Bitterneſs of the Draught, leads us not a Step out of the Road to Hap⯑pineſs hereafter; referring every thing to God, hymning out his Praiſe, and ſubmitting ourſelves implicitly, and humbly, to the Juſtice, Good⯑neſs, and Wiſdom of the divine Diſpenſations, whenever Heaven ſhall think fit to withdraw any of it's free Gifts from us.

As for the Concern and Unhappineſs we ſhall unavoidably feel upon the Diſappointment or Loſs of thoſe Things, which our fond Hearts are ſet upon here, you need not moralize ſo rigidly upon this Subject; for this Grief, like the Sighs and Tears which are the Conſequence of bodily Pain, will be attributed, by him who [112] made us, to the Weakneſs of that Nature with which he was pleaſed to cloath our Souls; and, in either Caſe, it is not our Feelings, but the Repinings, Impatience, or Deſpondency, which create the Crime.

You ſee I have here renewed the Strain of our former Correſpondence; for I am always pleaſed to enter into Subjects with you, when⯑ever you give me an Opportunity; and, if you would more frequently write to me, in ſuch a Manner as your laſt Letter, to ſhew the Deli⯑cacy of your Sentiment, and the Excellency of your Heart, you would do yourſelf infinite Service, in the Improvement of your own Mind and Virtue, in the Securing of my Love and Eſteem, and, at the ſame Time, afford the moſt extreme Pleaſure and Pride to my deareſt Fanny's conſtant, ſincere, and fond Huſband,

LETTER CCXX.

I THANK you for both your kind Letters:— They are lively Emblems of yourſelf; ſen⯑ſible, philoſophic, affectionate, and polite.

I am always ſincerely pleaſed, when any little Error or Weakneſs of mine gives my ever dear [113] Preceptor an Opportunity of ſetting his little Pupil right: And the Trouble you have taken, on this Occaſion, is doubly kind; for, as all the preſent and paſt Actions of your Life, toward me, may fully juſtify the Exceſs of my Affection for you, another Man might have thought it needleſs to ſatisfy the nice Scruples of a weak or delicate Mind; but thou, the dear Diſpenſer of all Heaven's Bounty to me, haſt convinced me, that it is both my Duty and Happineſs, as well as it was my Inclination, to indulge that tender, chaſte, and inviolable Affection, which I feel for thee, thou moſt deſerving of thy Sex! Nor would change even thoſe Pains thy Abſence gives me, for the dull Inſenſibility in which the common Race of Mortals paſs their Lives; though I confeſs theſe Pains imbitter every Hour of Life; for even while you are with me, my Thoughts are continually filled with the ſad Idea of our Parting;—and, indeed, it is dreadful to think of paſſing the Morn of Life, the Seaſon for tender Converſe, domeſtic Happineſs, and ſo⯑cial Joys, the Remembrance of which ſhould gild the down-hill Path, the Evening Tide of Life, in a State of Separation from all we love! to have the fleeting Days of Youth paſs, like a Dream, unmarked by any pleaſing Aera, or in⯑tereſting Event! Not but I agree with Milton and Shaftſbury, that they know not their own Intereſt, who wiſh never to be ſeparated from [114] thoſe they truly love; ‘for Solitude is ſome⯑times beſt Society; and ſhort Retirement urges ſweet Return.’ But mine is, I think, a perpetual State of Baniſhment; for the Months you are from me appear like Centuries, and the few Days you are with me fly away like the Moments of a dying Man, who knows he has but one ſhort Hour to live; or ſeem, at beſt, but like the wretched Exile's Interval of taking Leave for Life.

However, I will, henceforward, remember that Happineſs is reſerved for Immortality; and learn to conſider thoſe Anxieties, which the Ten⯑derneſs of my Affection ſometimes occaſions, as the Purchaſe of that Felicity, which it has, and I hope will ſtill continue to produce; I mean the redoubled Joys of meeting.

What you ſay, with Regard to the Reſent⯑ment I expreſs'd upon Tom's Behaviour, is very juſt; but I own my Nature is warm, and im⯑patient of Injuries, eſpecially when they are loaded with the vile Weight of Ingratitude; but, believe me, Harry, I have a Heart as tender, and a Hand as open to ſoft Compaſſion, and to melting Charity, even as your generous Self; but I confeſs, with a Kind of Pride not to be deſcribed, that, in the ſtoical Habitude of ſub⯑duing the firſt Impulſe of Paſſion, and attending to the Dictates of Reaſon and Humanity, you have, as in every thing elſe, a conſiderable Ad⯑vantage [115] over me. You are, indeed, the ſteady Rock, that keeps one even Courſe, and I the unſettled Cloud below, liable to the Guſt of every varying Wind, which veers it from it's purpoſed Bearing.

There is really ſomething ſingular in my Af⯑fection for you, which makes me triumph at every Mark of your Superiority in Senſe or Virtue, even over myſelf; and I feel a more exulting Pleaſure at being excelled by you, than I ſhould in being ſuperior to all the World beſide. Perhaps this may be owing to my having placed my chief Merit and Happineſs in the Tenderneſs and Exceſs of my Love, (and there alone I will not yield the Prize, even to you;) and as every new Proof of your Worth confirms and juſtifies the ruling Paſſion of my Soul, I am doubly pleaſed and grateful for it.

I will not yet deſpair of your Succeſs with your petrified Patronymic; for I depend on your Perſeverance; and conſtant Dropping wears at length the Marble: Beſides, you find that the Propoſal you made him, two Months ago, has at laſt made it's Way, and penetrated into his moſt obdurate Brain. So I take it for granted, that your laſt Offer is travelling the ſame round-about Road, and may, in the ſame Time, arrive, much fatigued with the tedious Barrenneſs of the Way, at the ſame Inn; and truly I think an Inn a proper Simile for his Brain, where neither [116] Senſe nor Science take up their Reſt, where every thing paſſes in dull Rotation, and leaves no more Impreſſion than ‘the Remembrance of a Gueſt, who tarrieth but a Night.’ If I were Genie of the Black Iſles, mentioned in the Arabian Tales, I would certainly take Meaſure of him, with my Wand, for a compleat Suit of Marble; his Wig, at leaſt, ſhould ‘eternal buckle take in Parian Stone.’

I ſhould have been glad to have known, from the oſſified Man, which I hear is depoſited in Dublin College, whether his Mind partook of his Body's Diſorder, and if his Heart grew hard in Proportion as his Nerves grew rigid; for if that be the Caſe, I would have the Gentle⯑man, in Queſtion, anointed with Oils, like an Olympic Wreſtler; for indeed I believe an Act of Generoſity would be a gymnaſtic Exerciſe to him; and I would have him put to ſleep in a Tub of Gooſe-Greaſe, to increaſe his Sen⯑ſibility.

Forgive me, Harry, for making ſo free; but I think it is better to laugh than cry, at Things which we cannot remedy; for I do not believe, what poor Lear makes a Queſtion of, that there is any Cauſe, or Cure, in Nature, for hard Hearts.

Your Obſervation, about Charles's Uneaſineſs, at being ſeparated from his Wife, is, I believe, very juſt; for I own I think him incapable of [117] that delicate Tenderneſs, which renders Abſence painful; but it is very poſſible he may be uneaſy for the Reaſons you aſſign; the Difficulty of Diſuſe, when Men are governed more by Habit than Reaſon; the miſerable Vacuum which this has left in his Mind and Time, and which he is at a Loſs how to fill up, &c. for there is not, I believe, a more helpleſs Mortal breathing, or one leſs qualified for Solitude: His poor vague Mind is neither imbued with Religion or Philo⯑ſophy, nor ſtored with Ideas enough to enter⯑tain himſelf, or any one elſe, for half an Hour; and, as he is generally much fatigued with Bu⯑ſineſs, and cannot read, he muſt neceſſarily fall aſleep, whenever he is left to himſelf; and ſuch a Situation would make one regret the Loſs of any Sort of Companion; therefore I heartily pity the poor Man.

I ſhould be very unhappy, if I doubted the Sincerity of your laſt Paragraph; but indeed I do not, for you have given me many kind Proofs to illuſtrate it; and you may believe me, in Return, when I aſſure you, that I would be content to give up half the Duration of my Life, to be cer⯑tain of ſpending the Remainder of it with you; which is, however, no great Compliment; for all the Time you are abſent I conſider myſelf in a State of Annihilation, as I am deprived of the principal Spring, or Movement, which actuates this little Machine; or, rather, like a Clock, [118] with the ſtriking Weight taken off, which is ſilent, though the Pendulum moves, and only expreſſes itſelf by the Hand, as I do now: But, though I am dumb to every one elſe, I find, as you may have long ſince obſerved in this long Letter, a vaſt Inclination of prating away to you; and ſhould go on with this running Pattern, without any Ground, for an Hour or two more, but that the Piece of Mechaniſm, I have been alluding to, has, luckily for you, juſt now informed me, that the Poſt-Office will be ſhut in five Minutes. Adieu! Adieu!

LETTER CCXXI.

I AM almoſt aſhamed to acknowledge the Re⯑ceipt of my dear Harry's laſt Letter. I ab⯑ſolutely bluſh, while I think of it. I can bear any thing better than Praiſe, which I do not deſerve: Yet Praiſe from you will always be pleaſing to me; for, though I may be conſcious I do not merit it, yet I cannot diſtruſt your Sin⯑cerity; and ſure I ſhall always be delighted with your thinking I am what I would wiſh to be.

I, by no Means, doubt your receiving much Pleaſure from ſuch a Bundle of my Letters coming at once to your Hands. My Idea of it is like paſſing a Day together. Though the [119] Subject was often changed, the Diſcourſe was continued; while a ſingle Letter appears like a ſhort Viſit, where the greateſt Part of thoſe Moments, we ſhould wiſh to employ more agreeably, is taken up with the Form of coming in, and going out: Yet, I confeſs, I would rather ſee a Perſon I loved, for half an Hour every Day, than be debarred that Pleaſure for a Month, though I were certain they would then ſtay a Week with me; for I think the ‘Joys of Meeting harldly pay the Pangs of Abſence.’ This may be owing to an Im⯑patience in my Temper, which I would gladly correct, as it occaſions me many melancholy Hours; for, alas! the greateſt Part of my Life is paſſed in a State of Separation from you; and even when you are with me, the Certainty of parting, at ſuch a Time, embitters the preſent Pleaſure. Pardon me, when I tell you, that I have often ſuſpected your Love, when I have ſeen you quit me, with as much Indifference as you would a common Acquaintance; while my poor fooliſh Heart has heaved, and Eyes ſtrained to follow you. I know you have ſo ſtrong an Underſtanding, as would, were you poſſeſſed of ſuch a fond Weakneſs, get the better of it; and yet, at this Moment, I ſwear (I ſpeak from my own Heart) I wonder how you can bear to be ſo long, and often, abſent. There is, I fear, but one Way of accounting for it;— [120] but, as I will not now ſay anything, that might appear ill-natured, I will leave you to gueſs at my Meaning. I am, however, at this Time, well pleaſed at your ſeeming indifferent to our part⯑ing; for I am now almoſt determined to take a long Adieu of my dear, dear Harry; and indeed there is not any thing will contribute ſo much to make me eaſy, as thinking he is ſo. I will not dwell longer on this Subject, but wait your Anſwer to my laſt Letter; for my Determination ſhall, on this and every other Occaſion, be only the Reſult of your Opinion, or Deſire.

I parted from Kitty, at —, this Morning: She preſſed me much to go with her: I own, I was ſtrongly prompted by Inclination to accept her Invitation; but durſt not venture, without your Conſent. Nancy has promiſed to make her a Viſit, by next Thurſday's Stage: If you do not think it improper, and I do not hear from Lady —, I ſhall gladly accompany her; but if you have any, the leaſt Objection, or are ap⯑prehenſive of any ill Conſequence from my going, I conjure you, by your Love, to ſpeak freely, and prevent me.

Lady —'s going to ſettle in France is not a ſudden Start: She always ſaid ſhe would go, whenever ſhe had completed her Affairs here: That Time is come; and I muſt either loſe, or follow her.

[121]I have been at —'s ever ſince I came to Town: He has lent me his Pliny. A Com⯑pany, playing at Cards by my Side, ſtun me with their Noiſe: I know not what I am writing; but this I know, that I am, with Love, Faith, and Conſtancy,

LETTER CCXXII. HENRY to FRANCES.

BELIEVE me ſincere in my Praiſes of you; for, upon that Subject, all Hyperbole is loſt in Truth. Whether, indeed, you really deſerve all that I think, which is ten-fold more than ever I ſaid of you, I cannot tell: Nay, ſometimes I fancy not; only for this Reaſon, that I am afraid there is not, in Reality, any Woman in the World ſo charming, as I imagine you to be; yet your Merit is the ſame to me, which is ca⯑pable of inſpiring me with ſuch pleaſing Ideas; as it amounts to the ſame, let Sceptics wrangle ever ſo long, whether there is ſuch a Thing as Matter in the Univerſe, or whether it is only a Spirit, which has the Power of conveying ſuch an Idea to our Senſes. And, as the amiable Opinion I have of my deareſt Fanny makes up moſt of my Happineſs in this Life, I ſhall con⯑ſider [122] it as Cicero does an higher Subject, ‘that, if it ſhould be a Miſtake, I would not part with the Belief of it, for a Certainty of the higheſt Good, in this World.’

Your Simile, with Regard to your Letters, has a pretty Fancy in it; and there is a good deal of the ſame Kind of Turn in many of your Writings, which has often made me declare, that I never met with any thing, in the epiſto⯑lary Stile, ſo very clever, as they are; ſo that, even abſtracted from the Conſideration of their coming from you, and being addreſſed to me, I do not read any thing, which gives me a more refined Entertainment.

I take it very unkindly, your ſeeming to ſuſ⯑pect me of the leaſt Indifference to you. When⯑ever I can be near you, how few Hours am I from you? And, be aſſured, it is my Misfor⯑tune, not my Fault, that I am not conſtantly with you. If I do not always part from you with the Appearance of that Fondneſs, which you might expect, it is owing intirely to that Temper, which I have endeavoured to practiſe myſelf into, as I have very little of it from Nature. No Man has more Tenderneſs, or ſoft Affection about his Heart, than I have; and my Philoſophy, which is not of the Stoic Kind, does not make me feel leſs in myſelf, but only ſerves to ſave Appearances to the reſt of the World. How often, my dear Fanny, have I [123] moſt earneſtly intreated of you never to ſay any thing of that Kind to me again? and, if you re⯑collect yourſelf, you will find, we have had very few Diſputes, but upon this Subject.

LETTER CCXXIII. FRANCES to HENRY.

I RECEIVED your's by the Stage, and that by the Poſt, within the ſame Hour. I am, however, obliged to you for your Deſign of ex⯑pediting it, though it did not anſwer.

I have ſomewhere (I think in the Spectator) met a Compariſon between the Effect, which Praiſe has on a generous Mind, and fine Weather, on a Thermometer. I like the Si⯑mile, and think it might be carried a great Way. I am not aſhamed to own, that I re⯑ceive the higheſt Tranſport from your Praiſe: It raiſes ſuch a noble Emulation in my Mind, as would, were my Power equal to my Will, render me worthy of it. I think there is a Kind of Inſpiration in your Praiſe, which might lead me to any great or virtuous Act: Add to this, that it ſets my Faults and Foibles in the ſtrongeſt Light. I conſider you as the Perſon, who has beſtowed the Merits you approve of; [124] and find myſelf aſhamed of every Weakneſs I diſcover in myſelf, which may leſſen them. In ſhort, it has the ſame Effect on the Qualities of my Mind, which our Belief of the divine Om⯑nipreſence ought to have on all our Actions. May my dear Harry continue ſtill to ſee me with the ſame Eyes of Fondneſs, 'till, by never ceaſing to deſire, I, at laſt, deſerve his Praiſe! and ſo, as you ſomewhere ſay, ‘ſtrengthen Habit into Virtue.’

Notwithſtanding your repeated Interdictions, I muſt aſk one Queſtion: Why ſhould you en⯑deavour to get the better of that natural Softneſs, you ſay you are poſſeſſed of? why lay yourſelf under a Reſtraint, to appear indifferent to the Woman you love? You cannot be aſhamed of that Paſſion, which is the Boaſt of human Nature. If then you thought the Object worthy of your Tenderneſs, why ſhould you wiſh to ſuppreſs it? nay, why not boaſt ‘the graceful Weakneſs of your Heart?’ I muſt ſay, you are a Laggard in the Race of Love: I have out-ſtripped, and left you far behind: ‘My Anthony is fat, and ſcant of Breath.’ At the Hazard of every thing, that is dear to me, I have proclaimed my Fondneſs; and do you bluſh at your's? Indeed I claim no Merit from the too public Confeſſion of my Love:— I could not help it; for ‘I am made a ſhallow, forded Stream, ſeen to the Bottom, all my Clearneſs [125] ſcorned, and all my Faults expoſed.’ My Nature is not capable of Diſguiſe; nor do I wiſh it were.—I hope we ſhall never diſpute on this, or any other Subject: I do, indeed, believe you love me; and ſhall conclude with your own Quotation, ‘that, if it ſhould be a Miſtake, I would not part with the Belief of it, for a Certainty of the higheſt Good in this World.’

I am ſorry I ever thought of leaving England: It has coſt me much Uneaſineſs. I am ſtill un⯑determined. I fear my Reſolution will not ſtand the Shock of quitting you: Believe me, I have nothing elſe to encounter:—My Intereſt and Pleaſure both point the Way; yet ſtill I loiter here. If my Going were fixed, I ſhould ſuffer as much on your Account, as my own. Ab⯑ſence, and a ſtrong Probability of never meeting more, might, perhaps, make us both regret our having ever met. The Delicacy of my Love is ſhocked, by ſuppoſing we ſhall ever repent our mutual Affection, or Engagements; yet, under the Circumſtances I have mentioned, it is not impoſſible that it ſhould happen. While we retain the pleaſing. Expectation of ſeeing each other, our Thoughts are all employed on the approaching Joy, and every intervening Object appears ſcarce worthy our Regard: But, were we parted with a moral Certainty, that Years muſt roll before we meet again, would it not be natural to ſeek for a Conſolation among thoſe, [126] who could beſt make Amends for the Loſs we had ſuſtained? and who can ſay to their Heart, "thus far ſhalt thou go, and no farther?"— You have loved before, and may again. This Thought, I own, diſturbs me: But why ſhould I torment myſelf with (I hope) groundleſs Fears? for I will not part with thee.—Let me be ſatiſ⯑fied that you deſire my Stay, then find the Plea⯑ſure, or Advantage, that ſhall force me from thee.—Let not this Confeſſion put you under any Reſtraint; for this be aſſured of; though, at your Deſire, I would chearfully forego every other Happineſs in Life, I will, if you require it, as readily embrace the Proſpect of an everlaſting Separation:—My Heart ſhall only feel, not ſpeak it's Anguiſh. Here give me Leave to re⯑mind you of a Converſation we had on this Subject ſome little Time before you left London: The Amount of it was, that, when I left the Kingdom, we ſhould no longer maintain any Correſpondence, but mutually endeavour to forget each other. To this I ſtedfaſtly adhere: For why ſhould we ſtrive to make each other more unhappy? If I go, I again repeat my Deſire of not ſeeing you: Indeed I could not bear it.—But I do not think I ſhall go.—I will let it reſt intirely upon you.

I told you, in my laſt Letter, I had given up the Thoughts of going to the Country; yet I long to ſee you; and, could I as eaſily go to [127] you, as you can come to me, I would not com⯑plain of Abſence. I have much to ſay to you; but, if I leave England, my Thoughts and Faults be buried with me!—Though I have no Right to expect a Letter by To-morrow's Poſt, I hope for one.

I have not Pliny by me now: But, though I am ignorant of the Text, I admire the Com⯑ment; which I beg you will continue. I look on it, at preſent, as I ſhould on a large Sum of Money, which I had in reſerve, to purchaſe ſome particular Pleaſure, at a ſtated Time. I therefore, again, deſire you will go on in⯑creaſing my little Hoard, more valuable to me, than all the Wealth of Croeſus.

I intend going to the Rock To-morrow, for two or three Days. I have found prodi⯑gious Benefit from bathing. I am grown al⯑moſt as fat as you are. Adieu!

LETTER CCXXIV.

I RECEIVED your Letter upon the Subject of your leaving England; of which you deſire my Opinion. I refer my deareſt Life to a former Letter, wrote upon this Occaſion: [128] The Particulars of it I do not, at preſent, re⯑collect; but am certain of this, that my Senti⯑ments are ſtill the ſame, as both my Love and Friendſhip for you are ſo. In ſhort, I ſhall neither conſent to it, becauſe it is agreeable to your Inclinations, nor diſſent from it, becauſe it is irkſome to mine; but ſhall venture to let it reſt upon a more infallible Principle, by referring my Heart's beſt Love to Lady —'s Determi⯑nation about the Matter. Her Senſe can direct, and her Goodneſs will ſupport you. May Heaven bleſs you! And, if I could, at any Time, recommend myſelf to Providence, with that fervent Devotion, which my Soul feels, at preſent, for you, I ſhould think, at that Mo⯑ment, it were a Bliſs to die.

When you firſt mentioned Lady —'s leaving the Kingdom, I confeſs received a Shock, which I could not account for: I did not know her enough to feel any perſonal Concern at her Loſs; but your laſt Letter has given me ſome Superſtition, which could never affect me, if my Spirits were not as low, as they are at preſent.

It was extremely unkind, at this Time, to mention your Letters, after the Manner you did. You ſpeak of quitting the Kingdom; and, at the ſame Time, grudge to leave me even your Picture, more eſtimable than any that Titian ever drew. When you deſired me merely to [129] return them, you were cruel only to me; but when you requeſted me to deſtroy them, you were unkind to the World, which may, perhaps, one Day ſee them. I deſpair of any, the ſmalleſt Portion of Fame, from my own Writings; but to be loved and praiſed in your's, may render my Name immortal. So Phaon will be ever remembered: But the ſame Fate cannot attend us both; for he, from his Inconſtancy, as Pope ſtrongly expreſſes it, is but ‘damned to ever⯑laſting Fame.’

I ſhall not dwell any longer on the Subject of your Letter, becauſe, indeed, I find myſelf too much affected with it; and I cannot, in my preſent Temper of Mind, think of Pliny, or any thing elſe. — So I ſhall make my Letter ſhorter, than I am ever inclined to do to you.

I ſhall conclude with a Saying of ſome of the Philoſophers, ‘that the Grief at loſing a Thing, and the Fear of loſing it, are equal.’

LETTER CCXXV. FRANCES to HENRY.

I WOULD have anſwered your's of the 7th laſt Poſt; but my not being well, joined to the preſent unſettled Situation of my Mind, had ſo much lowered my Spirits, that I feared my Letter would appear to you of the ſplenetic Caſt.

I now return my Thanks for the very elegant Compliments you make me. To deſerve them, would be too high a Boaſt for the moſt perfect of my Sex; yet I confeſs, though conſcious of my Want of Merit, I feel a ſecret Pleaſure, mixed with Pride, (not Vanity,) when praiſed by you. Though I am, perhaps, naturally vain, I find myſelf humbled, by the very Means which might be ſuppoſed to raiſe it. I look on the Compliments, you make me, as I ſhould on a Picture, which, though I had ſat for, the Painter, from the Elegance of his Fancy, not Judgment, had made a finiſhed Beauty. I am, however, proud of that Affection, which can, to the very few Merits I poſſeſs, add the Multi⯑tude I want, and place me in ſuch a Light, as it ſhould be my utmoſt Wiſh to appear in.

I have much to tell you about our Lady —. I am, at preſent, a good deal ſurprized at not hearing from her. She has wrote for her Chil⯑dren [131] to leave Town on Wedneſday.—Is it not ſtrange ſhe did not mention me? Though I cannot account for it, I am reſolved to give her Credit for acting right: She muſt have ſtrong Reaſons for altering her Purpoſe. I neither can, nor will ſuſpect any Change in her Friendſhip: She gave it me voluntarily, unmerited, and un⯑ſought; and, ſhould ſhe withdraw it, I have not any Right to complain;—but I will not torment myſelf with anticipating what I ſhould, indeed, think a ſevere Misfortune. To-morrow's Poſt may, perhaps, clear all.

I wrote to deſire your Opinion about my going with Nancy. I have changed my Mind, in that Particular, and think of it no longer. If I were certain of going to France, I could not bear the Agony of a laſt Parting; which, I am ſure, that would be: The Pain is already paſt; why ſhould I renew it? We are ſeparated; let us remain ſo.—If I ſtay in the Kingdom, it would be an idle Frolic, and might be attended with diſagreeable Conſequences.—I will not go there, on any Terms.

Your laſt Letter has almoſt diſtracted me. How can you write with ſuch tender Concern, yet leave me in Suſpence? When I apply to you, my Guide, my Director, for Advice, why refer me to another? Is there a Creature breath⯑ing, on whoſe Love, or Friendſhip, I ought to depend, more than your's? I hoped there was [132] not: If I have been deceived, it is equal what becomes of me.—I will not indulge a Thought ſo injurious to your Honour, and my Peace. How can you ſay it is agreeable to my Inclina⯑tions to quit you? for I neither think or ſpeak of any other Tye.—In Return for your unkind Suſpicion, I might tell you, that Thought was ſuggeſted by your Wiſhes, rather than Opinion. You know my Heart hangs on you; you are it's Support, and the ſole Source of all it's Hap⯑pineſs, or Miſery; and is it poſſible you can ſuſpect my Love? Does not your own Heart bear Witneſs for me, and contradict ſo cruel an Aſperſion? Unkind, ill-natured Harry! —Per⯑haps I wrong you. My Concern tranſports me beyond the Bounds of Reaſon. You could not mean to injure me ſo highly.

The Concern, you expreſs, at my leaving the Kingdom, ſhall, for the preſent, prevent my taking any Steps towards it, 'till I have your Opinion in more explicit Terms; for by that only I will be determined. What can prevent your giving it freely? You certainly know what you would have me do; and you are bound, by every Tye, to direct and guide my little Bark through all the Storms of Life.

Though I ſhould be glad my Letters were deſtroyed, I will not, if I go, deſire to deprive you of them: Their Value is owing to your Opinion: The inſiſting on them would be ſome⯑what [133] like ſtealing your Reputation; impoveriſh⯑ing you, without enriching myſelf. It would give me the greateſt Uneaſineſs, if I thought they would be ever ſeen by a third Perſon. They were wrote from my Heart to your's, without a View of extorting Praiſe; and were never deſigned for the unfeeling Vulgar. I have not any Apprehenſion of their being made public. You will not, for your own Sake, expoſe my Weakneſs to the World; and I dare ſwear there is not another Perſon in it, who would think them worth the Trouble of reading. I confeſs I have often wiſhed for ſo much Ge⯑nius, or poetic Fire, call it which you pleaſe, as might tranſmit to Poſterity an Idea of my Affection for you, and ‘graft my Love im⯑mortal on thy Fame:’ But that Wiſh, like moſt of mine, is vain. Apollo denied my Suit, though ſeconded by the antient, not modern, Cupid; but made me large Amends, by pro⯑miſing that my Name ſhould be immortalized by you.

I have this Inſtant recollected, that on this Day Twelvemonth I firſt ſaw Belvidere: Will you forgive me, if I ſay, I wiſh I had never ſeen it? What an infinite deal of Anxiety have we ſuffered for each other, ſince that Aera! and who can tell where it will end? Believe me, my Heart's dear Harry, this Reflection affords me as much Uneaſineſs on your Account, as on [134] my own: I fear we were born to make each other unhappy.—This, I own, is a Reflection unbecoming the Woman you love; but ſtill I am a Woman; and, though I think your loving me would make Amends for every Diſtreſs, that could befal me, I cannot bear to conſider myſelf as the Cauſe of any Misfortune to you. Had we not met, at that unlucky Criſis, I ſhould, at this Time, have been happily in⯑different to all your Sex; and you, perhaps, might have been fortunately engaged in the laudable Purſuit of ſome more worthy and amiable Woman.—But, as I am ſo far a Pre⯑deſtinarian, as to believe ‘whatever is, is right,’ I think there ſeems a Kind of Fate in our Reconciliation. We have mutually given up the Prime of our Lives to each other; and, after an Acquaintance of almoſt ſix Years, we find our Love, Friendſhip, and Eſteem, in⯑creaſing every Day.—Does not this look as if we ſhould ſpend the calm Evening, as well as the Noontide of our Lives, together? I will indulge this Hope, caſt every black, and gloomy Thought behind, and rely on the Opinion I have of your Love, and the Conſciouſneſs of my own, for all my future Happineſs. — Do with me what you will; bid me go, or ſtay; I will chearfully conform to whatever is moſt agreeable to you.

I beg you to excuſe this wild Rhapſody. My Thoughts are not reduced to any Kind of Form: They are filled with Love, Grief, and you. If I had wrote laſt Poſt I would not ſend this: I am quite aſhamed of it: Indeed it is ſad inco⯑herent Stuff. Can you blame me for not being Miſtreſs of myſelf, when I think of parting from you? I have done nothing but weep ſince I received your laſt Letter. If you conſent to my going, do not write ſo tenderly; for it will only make our Parting more painful.

I have yet a thouſand Things to ſay to you, but cannot ſpeak them. I have already ſaid too much; yet, like a peeviſh Child, I go on ſob⯑bing to myſelf, after my Reaſon tells me I ſhould have done.

Adieu, my ever-dear, my beſt-loved Friend! May Happineſs, equal to my Wiſhes, attend you through every Scene of Life! and may we [136] meet, at laſt, in that Fulneſs of Bliſs, which ſhall far exceed our fondeſt Hopes!

LETTER CCXXVI.

WHEN I ſaid your going to France was contrary to my Inclinations, I did not mean ſelfiſhly; it was my Fears and Appre⯑henſions of many Kinds, which made my Sen⯑timents doubtful about the Matter: And when I ſaid it was agreeable to your's, I did not mean to upbraid you for the Want of any, the leaſt Part of that Affection, and kind Regard, you have ſo generouſly beſtowed upon me; but merely alluded to the great Hopes, and ſanguine Expectations, which you had formerly from this Scheme, and which, I thought, depended on too many Hazards, to be haſtily ventured upon. For both theſe Reaſons, therefore, I referred a Determination in this Matter to Lady —, becauſe her Patronage and Protection would obviate a good deal of my Fears, and juſtify a great deal of your Hopes; and in that Caſe I ſhould ſubmit, though in any Caſe I could never conſent. Be well aſſured, my Heart's fondeſt Wiſh, that no Diſtance in this World, [137] nor Chance in this Life, can ever alter my Love, my Friendſhip, my tendereſt Regard toward you; for, as I think it is impoſſible they can ever improve, I am certain, from late Experience, and frequent Reflection both upon you and my⯑ſelf, that my warmeſt Affection, higheſt Eſteem, and ſincereſt Attachment both to your Perſon and Merits, will laſt during our Lives, and can only be increaſed or improved hereafter.

Your mentioning the firſt Day you came to Belvidere, has made me recollect, that I am but about a Year old; for I caſt every Day out of my Aera, before the Time I may be truly ſaid to begin to live; though, as I reckon my whole Exiſtence only with regard to you, I ſhall thus divide it: The 12th of May, 1746, I was born; the 6th of November following I was chriſtened; and the 13th of Auguſt, 1750, I became of Age; and I ſhould deem that the Day of my Death, upon which we ſhould ever be parted. Your viſiting this Receſs has made me in Love with Life, and every Enjoyment of it; it has made my own more my own; ſo that I may ſay, you have beſtowed it on me —

Accept then the Dedication of this Temple and theſe Plains, theſe Groves and Springs: The Hamadryads are your's; the Fawns—not [138] Satyrs — your's; the Naiads your's. Accept them all, and, with them, my Heart in Dower, which is your's, your's.

LETTER CCXXVII.

SINCE you deſire me to continue my Notes upon Pliny, I ſhall go on with that Subject again.

The firſt Epiſtle of the third Book puts me in mind of Lord Orrery's Wiſh about the latter Scenes of his Life, hinted at in one of my former Letters to you; and in the Paſſage I here allude to, for Want of better Light from Hiſtory, he ſuppoſes after what Manner Pliny paſſed the Decline of Life; but I think the latter Part of the Letter, I am now upon, affords a ſtrong Preſumption of this Suppoſition; and, as Pliny deſires Calviſius to keep that Letter by him, in order to judge of his Philoſophy, ſo ſhall we remember Lord Orrery's Declaration with the ſame View. I think the Character of Spurinna not unlike his own; and there is one Circumſtance hinted at, when he takes the Air in his Chariot, in which they happily agree. In this Letter there is a pretty Diſtinction between being pleaſed, and being proud of a Thing. ‘The only Mark of Age he diſcovers, is Prudence.’ This is a fine Trait.

[139]In the ſixth Epiſtle of the ſame Book, in the Comment on it, Lord Orrery gives us a gay Ode, to divert our Thoughts from the melan⯑choly Proſpect of an old Man; which is like the merry Epilogues, they give us often, after our Tragedies. This Argument has been treated pro and con in the Spectators: But for my Part, I always chuſe to retire with the Bier; for ſober Thoughts do me no Harm, as I can be grave, without being melancholy. I am ſurprized his Lordſhip ſhould ſay an old Man was a diſmal Sight; for a Perſon, who views all Things ‘In the calm Light of mild Philoſophy,’ regards with equal Eyes both Youth and Age; nay, I cannot think it requires any great Strain⯑ing of Philoſophy to bear even our own Decay, as there are Pleaſures and Solations indulged by Providence to every Stage of Life; and, to a Mind rightly turned, perhaps, not the leaſt to the laſt; and, if any Uneaſineſs ariſes in our Seneſcence, from a nearer Proſpect of the Grave, it is unbecoming a Chriſtian, who reſts in Hope.

There is ſomething extremely elegant, and a fine Addreſs of Compliment, in ſeveral of Pliny's Epiſtles, with a certain Tour d'Expreſſion et de Sentiment, which is obſervable in the Writings of the beſt and politeſt French Authors. I ſhall give you but one Example, among many; becauſe I would not prevent you, as you have [140] not gone through his Works. It is in the eighth Epiſtle of this Book: ‘And, ſince it is equally excellent to merit and confer Benefits, I ſee you are reſolved to lay Claim to the Praiſe of both, by giving to another what you have deſerved yourſelf.’

In the Obſervations upon the ſecond Epiſtle of the fourth Book, my Lord, after his humane Way, reprimands Pliny for his frequent Abuſe of Regulus; which, as I hinted, is an Inſtance of his Humanity, but not of his Judgment. There are many Men of vile Deſerts, ſo far beyond the Reach of Laws, that there is no Way to puniſh them, but by Satire or Invective; and I believe that ſeveral People, naturally vicious in themſelves, have been reſtrained within the Bounds of ſocial Morality, not from Reſpect to the Tables, but out of Fear of being ‘damn'd to everlaſting Fame.’ From the whole Tenor of Pliny's Character, and it is this Way we ſhould judge of Men, he inveighs againſt Regulus from a virtuous Rage, rather than from Hatred, Malice, or any Un⯑charitableneſs. This puts me in Mind of a Sentiment of your's, upon ſome ſuch Occaſion as this, which may not be improperly repeated here: It is upon the Subject of Revenge; ‘As a Paſſion, it is a Vice; but, as a Principle, a Virtue.’ Purſued with Malice and Ill-nature, [141] upon ſlight or common Provocations, it is a Paſſion inſtigated by the Devil; but great and real Injuries, proceeding from extreme Vice and Immorality, call aloud for Juſtice, and then Vengeance becomes a godlike Principle. Perhaps it would be a proper Criticiſm here, to diſtinguiſh between the Words revenge and avenge.

In the latter Part of the Comment upon the fourth Epiſtle, there is a very juſt Obſervation, That it is abſolutely neceſſary for us to be as wary in the Choice of our Amuſements, as of our Studies: For which Reaſon, I have often thought, that there wanted extremely ſuch an Office to be eſtabliſhed in all States, as a general Reveller; who ſhould preſcribe and preſide over the Amuſements, Pleaſures, and Diverſions of all Ranks, all Profeſſions, and all Ages of Men, even from their childiſh Years; which would be an Inſtitution of admirable Service to the World.

Read the whole nineteenth Epiſtle, and the Comment upon it. I fancy there are ſome Paſſages in both, which will ſtrike and pleaſe my dear Fanny; and, in order to leave the Impreſſion on your Mind, I ſhall put an End to this Letter, with the Addition only of an Alluſion to one of Prior's Poems, ‘So thinking on thy charming Youth, &c.’

LETTER CCXXVIII. HENRY to FRANCES.

I SUPPOSE, by my not hearing from you laſt Poſt, that you do not get my Letters regularly; which, I hope, is owing to your being retired to the Rock, though you have, at preſent, extreme bad Weather for Bathing. I have a melancholy Proſpect before me for my Wheat Harveſt, and I have the greateſt Quantity, and the beſt in this Country; moſt of which is lodged by the Rain, and ſhedding by the Wind. Mais vive la Philoſophie!

I hope to have a Letter from you To-day; but cannot get it, before this goes to the Poſt: So I ſhall go on with my Pliny, which I never read, but when I am to write to you; and, as I undertook this Work merely for your Amuſe⯑ment, ſo I find it now, for that Reaſon, if I had no other, the pleaſanteſt Manner of reading: It is certainly the moſt improving Method too; and, if I had a great Fortune, I would allow a good Salary to a Librarian, who ſhould antecede my Study, and mark out to me only thoſe Paſſages, which were remarkable or ingenious, improving or entertaining; as I would give my new Shoes to a Servant to wear firſt. The Perſon, I would employ for this Purpoſe, ſhould [143] rather be one of a refined Taſte than of deep Learning, and of more natural Underſtanding than great acquired Knowledge. In ſhort, my deareſt Fanny, you ſhould be my Minerva, my Preceptor; for even from your Fragments I might hope to grow rich in Wiſdom, and to be poliſhed into Virtue. This laſt Expreſſion has made a Sentiment occur to me, that there is a certain refined Taſte, (Parſons may call it Grace, if they will) which, unleſs born with a Man, the beſt-diſpoſed Chriſtian will be but an heavy, unformed Lump of Morality. What is that Reverence for the Antients, that humane Love for our Cotemporaries, that generous Benevolence for Poſterity, that tender Senſe for another's Sorrow, that high Reliſh for a Stranger's Happineſs, and, laſtly, that noble, philoſophic, heart-thrilling, and religious Ardor, which poſſeſſes the whole Soul with enthuſiaſtic Rapture, upon the Contemplation of the aſto⯑niſhing Greatneſs of the Works of Providence, and the infinite Goodneſs of their incompre⯑henſible Author? What are all theſe refined Pleaſures owing to, I ſay, but to a natural Taſte and quick Reliſh for Virtue; to a certain gifted Capacity, large enough to comprehend the whole intellectual Univerſe; that is, all Man⯑kind, paſt, preſent, and to come; and reaches ſo high, as to embrace even God himſelf? all which a plain, good Man has no more Idea of, [144] than we can of the Pleaſures of a ſixth Senſe. Addiſon has ſomewhat the ſame Turn of Thought with Regard to Piety, when he ſays, ‘that ſome People want Parts to be devout, and could as ſoon make an Epic Poem, as a fervent Prayer.’

But to return to Pliny, who is properly enough introduced after ſuch a Subject, as carried me beyond myſelf juſt now.

The twenty-firſt Epiſtle of the fourth Book is an extreme pretty one. I wept for the Helvidiae, not ſo much for their Death, as for Pliny's Grief at it.

In the next Epiſtle there is a poetical Wit⯑ticiſm in the Alluſion of the Arrow; which is, I think, the firſt Inſtance of that Kind, I have met with in this Author.

I am charmed with the whole twenty-third Epiſtle. That truly noble and philoſophic Ex⯑clamation, wiſhing for that Stage of Life, when he might live to himſelf, tranſports me. There is nothing, for which I deſpiſe a Perſon ſo much, as the paltry Wiſh to be younger; a childiſh Longing for a Bib and Bells again! He muſt have ſpent his Life very ill, or mean to do ſo, who would deſire to return back to any Aera of it; for we are, at any Stage, capable of Virtue.

In the twenty-eighth Epiſtle, Pliny has miſ⯑taken the Matter, with regard to Painting; for, [145] I think, it is a much eaſier Matter to copy a Picture, than to draw from the Life.

In the laſt Epiſtle of this fourth Book, he mentions a Spring, which ebbed and flowed. There is a Well ſome Miles from this, which is reported to do the ſame. I never examined into it, but ſhall ride over there ſome Day, on Purpoſe.

I am ſurprized, that any Perſon of common Senſe could miſtake the Legacy, which he was ſo pleaſed with, Epiſtle I. Book V. for that from Curianus was the only one, which did him Honour. He ſays, ‘A ſmall Legacy is fallen to me;’ which ſhews, he was telling his Friend ſomething new: And the former Legacy was above two Years before, at leaſt; for he ſays, that the Suit, with the Coheirs, was of ſo long ſtanding. The Miſtake of the Com⯑mentator's could never have happened, but from the mere Force of Prejudice; which has amazing Powers, in many higher Inſtances. Pliny firſt ſpeaks of Pomponia's Favour, to which it was natural to apply his Expreſſions of the Grateful⯑neſs of the Preſent; and, leaving the Reader in this Error, almoſt during the whole Letter, what he ſays at laſt, tho' it breaks with full Day upon you, could not open the Eyes of Prejudice.

In the fourth Epiſtle you may ſee the extra⯑vagant Fees, which were given to Lawyers, in Pliny's Time. This may make us a little better [146] reconciled to the Extortion in our own Days: Though, to view this Matter in the Light of political Morality, the preſent Exorbitancy ought to alarm us extremely; for, the higher Law or Juſtice is vended, the ſcarcer it muſt be; and the Poor, who need it moſt, will, conſequently, have leaſt of it. Then Oppreſſion reigns, and Liberty is no more; and then is a State in the proper Criſis for a Revolution, either by Rebel⯑lion at home, or Invaſion from abroad. At the Time Pliny hints at this Extravagance, the great Roman Empire was haſtening to it's Ruin.

LETTER CCXXIX.

OUR Aſſizes are over, and I am returned to myſelf, that is, to you. I wait not for the Pleaſure of hearing from you, but amuſe myſelf, in the mean Time, with the more imperfect one of writing to you. I am now retired among my Books, the beſt Part of which Library I eſteem your Letters; for they not only teach me Wiſdom, but promiſe me that glorious End, of which Wiſdom is the ſureſt Means, Happineſs.

[147]I have read ſome Pages this Morning in the ſecond Volume of Orrery's Pliny; but ſhould not, at this Time, think of entertaining you out of this Author, if I had not from thence a fair Opportunity of addreſſing myſelf more particularly to my Heart's only Aim.

You may remember, that you rallied me upon not taking Notice of Pliny's Epiſtles to Calpurnia, in my former Remarks; but I de⯑fended myſelf, upon there not being any in the firſt Volume. The fourth of the ſixth Book, which is the firſt of the ſecond Volume, is the firſt of theſe Epiſtles. I confeſs myſelf charmed with it; and am the more particularly fond of her, as, from the Hint of her Conſtitution and Make, ſhe ſeems to reſemble you; as you, in Return, do her in this; that I think you would deſerve, on the like Occaſion, a Letter full of the ſame Fondneſs, and Tenderneſs, and con⯑jugal Regard. Whenever I raiſe a Statue to Pliny, I will have that whole Epiſtle inſcribed on the Pedeſtal.

The two firſt Lines of the fortieth Page con⯑tain a very fine and a juſt Sentiment. From the ſecond Paragraph of the Comment upon this ſixteenth Epiſtle, you may draw a Compariſon between Pliny and Shakeſpeare, by obſerving, that the little Jingle, and affected Turns, in both their Writings, were rather the falſe Taſte of their Age, than the Vices of the Authors.

[148]The Reflection in the ſeventeenth Epiſtle, that ‘he, who envies another, muſt be his Inferior,’ is fine.

At the End of the Notes upon the fourth Epiſtle of the ſeventh Book, Lord Orrery wiſhes that this Letter had periſhed; I ſuppoſe, becauſe it betrays a little Vanity about his trifling Per⯑formances in Poetry. He is very often angry at him, when he ſhews a Weakneſs of any Kind; becauſe it is natural for us to wiſh thoſe, we love or eſteem for ſome Qualities, perfect in all. Now I am not quite ſo ſevere in this Matter: "Non ego paucis offendor Maculis." Human Nature has many Foibles; and, when I perceive ſome in a great Character, I ſuppoſe I ſee the whole Man; but, when a perfect Syſtem is preſented to me, I ſuſpect the Genuineneſs of the whole; for, as I conclude a Part is acted ſomewhere, I think it poſſible it may be done throughout: Which gives me Occaſion to re⯑mark upon the only Foible, I ever could object to my own Calpurnia; that I have now begun to conſider it like a Tree or Shrub, which happens ſometimes to be met with in forming the regular Alley of a Parterre; which, though it would be out of Rule to plant it there, would betray a Want of Taſte to root it out.

The firſt Paragraph of the fifteenth Epiſtle gives me an Opportunity of renewing my Remark upon one of the Epiſtles of the firſt Volume: [149] I forget which of them; and, as I have returned you that Book, I cannot ſet myſelf right now; but it is where he comes very near preferring a Life of retired Leiſure to public Buſineſs; but dares not ſpeak quite out, for the Reaſons there mentioned. In the Paſſage of this Letter, which I am now quoting, he ſays, ‘I dare not ſay my Life would be better, but certainly it would be happier, if my Studies were my ſole Employments.’

I think, Lord Orrery has miſtaken that Paſſage in the eighteenth Epiſtle, where Pliny ſays, ‘The Land itſelf will never want a Proprietor;’ for Pliny ſeems to conſider this Farm with a View of ſetting it, not of ſelling; and therefore rather wants a Tenant, than a Purchaſer. The ori⯑ginal Expreſſion ^*, "à quo exerceatur," ſeems to warrant this Senſe.

On the nineteenth Epiſtle, Faulkner makes a remarkable Blunder in the Comment, about the Genealogy of Fannia; but, indeed, the whole Edition of this Book is very faulty.

In the Obſervations upon the twenty-fifth Epiſtle, my Lord quotes, as a Proverb, this Sentence: ‘He, that is not for me, is againſt me;’ by which he ſeems not to recollect, that it is a Paſſage in Scripture, and ſpoken by [150] our Saviour ^†. I am ſure, if he had been aware of this, he would not have introduced it ſo lightly here.

Adieu!

LETTER CCXXX.

I AM infinitely obliged to my deareſt Life, for the Kindneſs and Conſtancy of his Letters: They have, indeed, almoſt made me Amends for the Pangs of Abſence. I know nothing elſe that could have ſoothed, or even amuſed my Mind, but thoſe dear Pledges of your Love. I confeſs I never felt ſuch ſevere Anguiſh in my Life, as at our laſt Parting; and, though you appeared ſo then, I do not now believe you was indifferent. A thouſand Circumſtances con⯑curred to render it more painful to me, than any of our former Separations. You have kindly obviated the moſt material; and I ſhall now endeavour to forget the paſt, and only look for⯑ward with the pleaſing Hope of our Meeting.

The Gentleneſs with which you treat my greateſt Fault, will, I flatter myſelf, have a better Effect, than the ſevereſt Reproof. Allow me, my deareſt Harry, to ſay, without a Boaſt, my Nature is honeſt, generous, and open. I was brought up with, perhaps, too much Tenderneſs and Lenity: Unuſed to Harſhneſs, I cannot [151] eaſily bring myſelf to bear it from one I paſ⯑ſionately love:—But be aſſured I will endeavour to root this Weed, not Shrub, intirely out of your little Parterre.

I wiſh I was as well able to vye with the Merits of Calpurnia's Character, as your Epiſtles, for Nobleneſs of Sentiment, Juſtneſs of Thought, Elegance, and Tenderneſs of Expreſſion, may with Pliny's; but, alas! I fear I fall as far ſhort of her, as you, in my Opinion, ſurpaſs him. In one Reſpect, however, I am ſure I ſhall equal, if not exceed her; in my unbounded Love, and faithful Friendſhip for thee, thou deareſt, moſt amiable, and deſerving of thy Sex!

I hope, when I write next, I ſhall be more at Peace; for I am not ſettled yet. In the mean Time, I beg you will excuſe the Wildneſs and Incoherence of this Scrawl, and believe me, with the tendereſt Affection and ſincereſt Eſteem, your fond, and faithful,

LETTER CCXXXI.

I RECEIVED no Letter from you by Tueſday Night's Poſt, ſo ſuppoſe there was not any Certainty, or Alteration in your Affairs, at that Time, worth recording. I have ſent to Town, [152] expecting a Letter by Thurſday's Poſt, and am very ſure I ſhall not be diſappointed. I hope the Letter itſelf may not diſappoint me.

Since I received Lady —'s laſt Letter, I have had frequent Struggles with myſelf about anſwering it. If I do not anſwer it, I ſuffer the Correſpondence to drop on my Side; which is unpolite: If I do anſwer, I may ſeem to pre⯑ſume too much upon an occaſional Adven⯑ture, and thereby be deemed unworthy of the Honour proceeding from it. Upon the whole, I have determined in the Negative, and ſacri⯑ficed my Inclinations to my Prudence, upon this Reaſoning; that few Men can deſerve ſuch high Honour, by their Merits; but almoſt any Man may appear not unworthy of it, by his Modeſty. One particular Thing, which tempted me to write, was, the occurring of ſome farther Thoughts upon that comfortable Subject of the Mercy of God; which was Part of my Letter to her; and which I did not carry as far as I might, with a little Reflection, at that Time, leſt it ſhould look like a premeditated Eſſay, what was, in Rea⯑lity, but an occaſional Occurrence; though, after what Manner hinted to me, from any Part of my Letter, I cannot, at preſent, recollect.

The only Objection which Divines make to the unbounded Mercy of God, is his infinite Juſtice; for, ſay they, Juſtice is concerned about puniſhing the Wicked, as well as re⯑warding [153] the Virtuous; and the only Scope they will allow to Mercy, is Remiſſion upon Re⯑pentance.

Now let us conſider the Matter impartially among ourſelves; for obſerve, there is nobody by, but you and I.

In the firſt Place, it is high Preſumption to pretend to reaſon about the Attributes of God; and all Definitions of this Kind may be con⯑ſidered ‘like the Eye in Proſpect, whoſe, Strength can find no End; but Weakneſs makes one.’ The Qualities and Faculties of the human Mind, from whence they vainly argue, may have (and it is more than probable) ſo little Relation to the divine Mind, that there may not be even any Analogy between them; and may, perhaps, to a Spirit capable of con⯑ceiving both, be as different Ideas, as Sound and Colour.

But let us diſpute with them, upon their own Terms, and ſpeak of God as Man; and let us agree, for the Sake of Argument, that, though the Qualities of a human Creature certainly bear no Proportion to the Attributes, they may, however, have ſuch a Relation to them as Time has to Eternity; and thus we may come to a clear Method of reaſoning upon this Subject.

Human Juſtice then, as blended with human Paſſions and human Policies, may be defined a Retribution of Rewards and Puniſhments; but, [154] to conſider it in the Abſtract, I do not think that even human Juſtice comprehends the latter Part of this Definition; for Puniſhments are inflicted either to revenge or to deter. Now, with Regard to the firſt, a Legiſlature is diſ⯑paſſionate; and, with Regard to the latter, I am ſure, that if a Man could commit any Crime, which it was impoſſible for him, or any body elſe, ever to commit again, it would be a Cru⯑elty to allot any Penalty for it; becauſe, in this Caſe, the Benefit of the Example would never operate. In this State, then, I look upon our Souls in the next World; as having committed Offences, which we can no longer repeat, and the Puniſhment of which can then no more avail us, or ſerve as a wholeſome Example, to deter others; nor is God a Man, that he ſhould be angry.

I ſhall not add any thing farther upon this Head, but juſt to obſerve to you, that the De⯑finition of Mercy, as it is given in the Beginning of this Diſcourſe, abſolutely annihilates the Virtue, by making it only Part of another; for Forgiveneſs, upon Repentance, is not a diſtinct Operation, according to that Senſe; but merely a Piece of Juſtice. If I forgive my Debtor, he is obliged to my Generoſity: But, if he pays the Debt, he releaſes himſelf; and I but perform common Equity, by giving up his Obligation, upon Conditions performed. Adieu!

LETTER CCXXXII. FRANCES to HENRY.

THE unſettled, and, of Courſe, uncom⯑fortable Situation I have been in, theſe three Months, makes me feel a very ſincere Satisfaction at being able to date this Letter from my own Apartment, or, rather, your's; for I cannot, will not call it mine, 'till you have bleſt it with your Preſence. Haſte, then, my deareſt Life, my kindeſt Love, my All, my Being, haſte, and reſtore your Fanny to the En⯑joyment of herſelf in you! bring to her Wiſhes, to her Tranſports bring all that can make Mor⯑tality endured, and render Immortality ſtill more deſirable!

The Impatience of my fond Deſire to ſee you, has hurried my Imagination into a Kind of Rhapſody; but I own I ſhould think it a Crime to love you after the common, ſober, inſipid Manner; and, if Exceſs of Love be pardonable in any Woman, I may ſtand ex⯑cuſed. My Conſtitution is naturally cold; nor could it be warmed into Love by an Object leſs worthy, than my Heart's dear Harry. This Declaration, which is, indeed, a true one, may well ſecure you from any Fear of Change in my Heart: I wiſh, both for your Sake and my [156] own, that I had Merits ſufficient to furniſh me with the ſame Security. But, as your Love and Conſtancy outweigh even your other Merits to me, I will reſt ſatisfied, from my Dependence on them, though conſcious of my Want of Worth to deſerve them, in any other Way, but by returning them an hundred-fold.

I cannot help ſaying, I am ſorry the Corre⯑ſpondence, between Lady — and you, is at an End; though, I am certain, you judged it right.

Though we can have no perfect Knowledge of the Attributes of God, I cannot think it Pre⯑ſumption to form an Idea, according to our finite Capacity, that he is juſt and merciful. If we believe the Bible to be a Work of Inſpira⯑tion, we muſt aſſent to this Opinion. If we conſider it as the Work of mere Man, un⯑aſſiſted, uninſpired, it appears, that the Reſult of natural Reaſon, as far as finite can compre⯑hend infinite, has given us an Idea both of the Almighty and his Attributes; and ſure it cannot be criminal to employ that Reaſon, which he hath beſtowed upon us, in Contemplation of his Excellence. The Fault, which I think the Generality of Men, and particularly Divines, run into, is not the Reaſoning on the divine Attributes, but daring to ſet Bounds to what their poor finite Capacities cannot comprehend. —I cannot, by any Means, agree with you, [157] that it is probable there ſhould be no Analogy between the divine and human Mind. We believe God to be all-wiſe, all-good. We muſt change the Idea of theſe Attributes into Folly and Cruelty, if we ſuppoſed he did not form the Faculties of our Souls by the moſt perfect Model—by himſelf; though he confined their Operation within a narrow Sphere. But when we ſhall put off this frail Mortality, that now clogs and incloſes the Faculties of our Souls, I do believe they will be enlarged; and of what Uſe could they be, had they no Analogy to the divine Being, in the Contemplation of whoſe endleſs Glory and Perfection our chief Happineſs will, I preſume, conſiſt?

I am quite charmed with your Argument for unbounded Mercy. I think it is carried as far as finite Wiſdom can go; and, to make uſe of your own Expreſſion ^*, has ſhewn, that ‘God is not made up of Parts, but is one perfect Being,’ whoſe Attributes co-operate and cor⯑reſpond together.

In Compliance with your often-repeated De⯑ſire, you ſee I have ventured to touch upon a Subject infinitely beyond my Capacity; but it is in ſuch a Manner, as Boys firſt learn to ſwim; conſcious I am out of my Depth, and afraid of drowning every Inſtant: But my dear Teacher [158] will, I am ſure, reach out his Hand to ſave his little trembling Pupil. Adieu!

LETTER CCXXXIII. FRANCES to HENRY.

AS I am ſtill in the ſame diſagreeable Way, with Regard to my Health, I would not write to my ſweet Love this Night, but to prevent his Apprehenſion of my being worſe. There is ſomething extremely odd in my Diſ⯑order, as there is not the leaſt Alteration in it. Time has, however, leſſened my Feelings, but not abated my Complaints. I own I am greatly alarmed at my Illneſs; but I will not ſay more on a Subject, which, I am ſure, occaſions you almoſt as much Pain as me.

I will not, by any Means, accept either of the Epitaphs, you offer me, unleſs I ſhould ſurvive you. (What a Thought was that!) Forgive me, Heaven, when I ſay, thy Joys, as far as my poor finite Views can reach, could hardly counterpoiſe my Henry's Loſs. I will not, can⯑not bear to part with thee. My Spirits are much too low, to be able to get the better of this melancholy Reflection; and, believe me, Harry, fully certain as I am of the Mercies of [159] my Creator, I find no Pang in the Thoughts of dying; nor do I think I ſhould find a Sting in Death itſelf, but that of being torn from thee, my Life, my Soul, my Immortality! and could I call it "an Eſcape, a bleſt Exchange?" ah! no:—I muſt want much of that paſſionate Re⯑gard I feel for thee, e'er I can think it Bliſs to part from you. I'll not endure the Thought.

I hope, indeed, you will take Care to ſee me laid in ſome Place, where Death ſhall not divide our poor Remains; ‘where thou, with frequent Eyes, my Sepulchre may'ſt ſee!’ Oh! grant, thou good, thou great, all-merciful, and all-glorious God, that the laſt Object, which I view on Earth, may be my Henry! that he may cloſe my Eyes, ‘and ſmooth my Paſſage to the Realms of Day!’

I gladly accept of every Mark of Age, which it ſhall ever be in your Power to devote to me, provided they give no Hints of your Mortality. I own I rejoice at every Pain, or Sickneſs, that I feel, which ſeems to promiſe I ſhall not be left behind; for I can much better bear the Thoughts of quitting you, than of your leaving me.

Adieu, my Life! my Love! Believe me your's 'till Death, and ever after.

LETTER CCXXXIV. HENRY to FRANCES.

I AM much alarmed about your Diſorder, and extremely concerned at it. For Heaven's Sake take Care of yourſelf. Go early to Bed, though you lie awake three Hours after it; and get up early, though you ſhould be obliged to doſe in the Middle of the Day for it. Conſider, my Heart's Paſſion, my Mind's Reflection, my Life's Happineſs, and my Soul's Hope, that all theſe precious Concerns depend upon you, and are employed about you. If I had a more fa⯑vourite Scheme in View, than your Felicity, or imagined to myſelf any Tranſport, but through that Means, you might then, perhaps, be at Liberty to trifle away your Time and Health, upon Perſons who have neither Senſe or Taſte enough to conceive your Merits, nor Tender⯑neſs or Love to be affected by them. Re⯑member now, my warmeſt Wiſh, that I truſt you with yourſelf; and ſurely the high Confi⯑dence of ſo dear a Pledge deſerves, at leaſt, that it ſhall not be impaired in your Keeping.

Since you do not approve of my Epitaphs, I beg you will frame others more to your Fancy; or, rather, let the Actions of our Lives form the [161] Mottos for our Graves. It was finely ſaid of Socrates, when called upon by his Judges to make his Defence, ‘I have been doing nothing elſe all my Life.’ Montaigne obſerves, very juſtly, upon the Subject of Death, ‘that the Philoſophy of the Schools but increaſes, by Prepenſity, the Terrors of it; and only pre⯑pares us for the Preparation.’ What ſignifies all the Sophiſtry deduced from the Conſidera⯑tion of the Mortality of our State, that we had Life itſelf but upon theſe Conditions, ‘that Death, a neceſſary End, will come when it will come?’ with other Quibbles of the ſame Kind.—The only Way to make ready for Death, is to prepare our Lives for it. Actions, not Words, can comfort us at ſuch a Criſis.

After ſo ſolemn a Subject as this, it may ap⯑pear light to mention ſuch a Trifle, as I am going to ſpeak of, but that, in Truth, though I expect to be laughed at, I have ſome Scruples of Conſcience about it. There is a Butterfly in my Study, which would be dead ſome Time paſt, but that I watched it, at the End of the Seaſon, and have frequently revived it by the Warmth of my Breath, every Day ſince; and you cannot conceive the Pleaſure I receive, when I feel it flutter in my Hand, upon ſuch Occaſions. By this Means I have prolonged it's Life beyond the Date of Butterflies. Now perhaps I am coun⯑teracting the Order of Providence, and may [162] deſerve the Puniſhment of Promotheus, for ſteal⯑ing Fire from Heaven, to animate his Man of Clay: Perhaps too, I am but making this poor Inſect linger out a Life in Pain; for I believe no Creature, but Man, ever received Pleaſure from any thing which was contrary to Nature. In ſhort, I begin to fancy I am guilty of ſuch a Cruelty, as the keeping a Man awake all Night, by Way of adding ſo many Hours to his Day. Should any Phyſician diſcover an Elixir, which might equal our Lives to the Age of the Pa⯑triarchs, would he not deſerve to have his own cut ſhort, for tempting Men to cheat themſelves of ſome Portion of a glorious Immortality, merely to lengthen out ſome Years of Miſery, here below? The Gymnoſophiſts have a fine Sentiment; that we are, in this Life, but in a State of Conception; and that Death is our De⯑livery. A Man, then, who has lived beyond the Bounds preſcribed by Nature, may, perhaps, be conſidered, in the next Life, as a monſtrous Birth. For my Part, I deſire not to die before the ordinary Fate of human Nature; but, at the ſame Time, wiſh, with Horace,

Adieu, my Life! Remember your Health, and remember me.

LETTER CCXXXV. FRANCES to HENRY.

I DO not, indeed, think it would be poſſible for me to ſupport myſelf, under the very diſ⯑agreeable Situation I am in, both of Body and Mind, were it not for the Pleaſure I receive from my dear, dear Life's kind Letters. I own I am jealous of Solitude; and cannot help being uneaſy, when I think your Fondneſs for that muſt, by Degrees, leſſen your Love for me: And, ſhould I ever be ſo happy as to live with you, my Company, or Converſe, may appear an Interruption to your Scheme of Life: It will, of Courſe, grow diſtaſteful, and I unhappy. I only ſpeak my Fears, not my Opinion; for that ſhall always be guided by you; nor will I doubt your Love, your Truth, and Conſtancy.

I am vaſtly alarmed at hearing, from your Brother, you do not intend coming to Town. I will not believe you could form ſo unkind a Reſolution: Pray anſwer me directly, will you come, or no? and when, if you do come, may I expect to ſee you? You cannot conceive what a Shock this Report gave me. My whole Life is, indeed, ſpent in waiting for you: I count every Hour an Age, 'till we meet, and would gladly ‘imp the Wings of Time, which thy [164] Abſence clips.’ I rejoice, every Night, that a Day is paſſed, and that I am ſo much nearer the happy Aera, I had fondly fixed for our Meeting. In ſhort, I ſhould have no Idea of Time, or it's Limits, but from the Expecta⯑tion of ſeeing you. Yet, notwithſtanding my earneſt Deſire, let me intreat you not to think of coming, unleſs it be quite convenient to you.

Though I object, from ſelfiſh Views, to my dear Harry's Love of Solitude, I perfectly agree with him in thinking the Generality of People and Converſations, we meet with, to be moſtly diſagreeable; at beſt, trifling and inſipid, and quite incapable of affording that Delight, which ſhould ariſe from the Converſe of rational and immortal Beings; yet do I think Life would become irkſome, and every Virtue ſtagnate in our Souls, were they not called into Action by a Deſire of being approved by ſome particular Perſon.

Oh! were I capable of being that pleaſing, kind, and rational Companion to my Henry, my Bliſs would be compleat. I would, with Tranſport, quit the World this Moment, if I might be Par⯑taker of thy Solitude in the moſt diſtant Deſart; nor caſt a Wiſh, a Sigh, or Thought away on aught on Earth;—for thou to me art all. And yet, perhaps, we never ſhall ſpend a ſingle Day together, in that delightful, undiſturbed, peace⯑ful Retirement, which we both pant after.—My Spirits were low before: This Thought has ſunk them quite.

Adieu, my deareſt Love! I am ſtill ſick, ſtill your's.

LETTER CCXXXVI.

I SEND you, incloſed, the Cover of your laſt Letter, which you ſee was ſent without a Seal. Through what Peruſals it has paſſed I cannot ſay; but am glad it has eſcaped the Cotton Library of Manuſcripts, to arrive ſafe to my Hands, at laſt.

You have no Reaſon to apprehend, that my Fondneſs for Retirement can ever ſeclude you from my Society: That Taſte, or Turn of Mind, which gives me a Diſreliſh to Converſa⯑tion in general, does but create in me a ſtronger Impatience for the Enjoyment of your's in par⯑ticular. I own that my Paſſion for Solitude has grown very ſtrong in me of late; but muſt con⯑feſs, that I ſhould chuſe to carry it no farther, than to that bleſſed State, which Adam rejoiced in, between the laſt Creation and his Fall: ‘Adam relating, ſhe ſole Auditreſs.’

I agree with you, that the Approbation we expect from virtuous Actions, is a very high In⯑citement to them; and the Love of Fame, ſo ſtrongly implanted in all Mankind, has always appeared to me a very good Proof of the Soul's Exiſtence after Death, even of it's eternal Exiſtence: For, as this is a Paſſion, [167] which nothing leſs than Immortality can gratify, it would be impiouſly charging Providence with inſpiring us with a Deſire, which we were never deſigned to poſſeſs the Enjoyment of, were we to exclude the Hope of an Hereafter.

As the Immortality of the Soul, and the Ex⯑iſtence of a God, have been often made uſe of, as reciprocal Proofs, I ſhall add a few Words, upon this laſt Subject, to the many excellent Arguments, more at large inſiſted upon by the Divines. If Infidels, or Sceptics, deny, or doubt the Certainty of an intelligent Providence, yet ſurely the Belief of it ought to be received, as we give Credit to the Copernican Syſtem; if not for it's Demonſtration, at leaſt, becauſe this Hypotheſis accounts for all the Phaenomena of the celeſtial Bodies; which would otherwiſe ap⯑pear a Heap of wild Incoherence: And raſhly to deny a Thing, becauſe we cannot compre⯑hend it, is ſuch a Pyrrhoniſm, as to affirm we cannot ſee, becauſe we are not ſufficiently in⯑formed how we ſee: For to ſay we ſee by our Eyes, is unphiloſophical; for our Eyes are but the Organs of Sight; that is, the Inſtrument, not the Cauſe. In looking up through the Chain of Effects, our Reaſon heſitates at a cer⯑tain Period, which we preſume to be the firſt Cauſe; though, beyond our Comprehenſion, the Links may be infinite, before they reach the firſt Cauſe; and, then, to ſay we cannot com⯑prehend [168] that firſt Cauſe, is but a Sort of Defi⯑nition of it; for, if we could comprehend it, it could not be what we muſt ſuppoſe it.

Ever ſince you attacked me ſo well upon my Hint, that, perhaps, there was as little Analogy, as Compariſon, between the Virtues of Man, and the Attributes of God, I have been re⯑volving that Subject in my Mind; for we ſhould have Reaſons, even for our Doubts, in ſo high a Matter; and, the more I conſider it, the more am I confirmed in an Opinion, which was but a Surmiſe, at firſt. If we ſtick to the Religion of Nature, we can, indeed, only ſay, perhaps there may be no Relation between them; but when we come down to Revelation, we ſhall find many expreſs Authorities to ſup⯑port my Argument; two of which I think ſuf⯑ficient to produce. What Notions of Juſtice can the human Mind ſupply us with, for the Curſe derived to all Mankind from original Sin? Then, again, Part of the ſecond Cammandment ſays, ‘I will viſit the Sins of the Fathers upon the Children, to the third and fourth Genera⯑tion of them that hate me,’ &c. What human Equity is there in this? Is not the Crime of hating God, in the proper Senſe of that Expreſ⯑ſion, ſufficient to incur the Puniſhments de⯑nounced againſt the Wicked, without involving us in our Parent's Guilt? Perhaps it was from ſuch Inſtances as theſe in Scripture, that the [169] Papiſts have deduced their abſurd Doctrine of Supererogation; for, if we are to be damned by another's Sin, it may be reaſonably implied, that we may be ſaved by another's Merits. Upon the whole, I ſhall conclude with another Paſſage from the Scriptures, ‘that the Wiſdom of Man is but Fooliſhneſs, in the Sight of God.’ Away, then, with all preſumptuous Reaſonings of this Kind; but let us ſubmit our Minds to Faith, and begirt ourſelves to good Works.

Adieu, my Heart's Delight! my Soul's De⯑ſire! Say you are well, in your next Letter; and then ſay you have obliged me.

LETTER CCXXXVII.

I RECEIVED no Letter from you laſt Poſt, and cannot know whether I ſhall hear from you by this, 'till I return To-morrow to —. It was unkind in you to neglect writing, when you knew how uneaſy I muſt be to have ſome Account of your Health. I ſaw Kitty Yeſterday, who heard from ſome of her Friends; and, by not mentioning you, I hope this Omiſſion was not owing to your Diſorder.

[170]I had a wild Night of it, coming here, and have not been ſo wet, ſince I was laſt in the River. I had no Cloaths with me, but what I had on my Back; ſo I have betaken myſelf to my Bed; from whence I am now writing to you, and drinking your Health, and my own too, in Milk-Whey. My kind Landlady, who is alſo my Tenant, upon Notice of my coming here To-day, has waſhed my Sheets in the Morning, and my Room in the Evening, to make me welcome.

I obſerved an extraordinary Phaenomenon, as I came along. The Night was extremely dark, and the Rain fell exceſſively: Notwithſtanding which, the whole Mountain, I rode over, ſeemed to be on Fire, with ſuch an ember Light, as is ſeen after the Blaze of a Bonfire is gone out. I aſked my Guide the Meaning of it, (whom I hired at the Foot of the Hill,) and he told me, that all the heathy Grounds here⯑abouts have this Appearance, by Night. This is certainly a very great natural Curioſity; but what I never obſerved, or heard of before. If this were real Fire, it might put this Part of the Country into a terrible Combuſtion, as the Collieries happen to meet in the Center of theſe Hills.

This Thought led me inſenſibly on to the Conſideration of the general Conflagration, which is propheſied in Scripture; and which [171] our Faith makes us expect, at a certain Period, from ſome extraordinary Act of divine Power; but which I never heard accounted for, from the Philoſophy of Nature, as it ſtands at preſent. I ſhall therefore amuſe you, and myſelf, with an Hypotheſis for this Purpoſe; and may, ſometime or other, hereafter, refer it to wiſer Heads than ours, whether there be any real Weight in this whimſical Opinion of mine, or no.

I muſt firſt give your a ſhort Account of Aſtronomy. This Globe of Earth, as well as all the Planets of our ſolar Syſtem, revolves about the Sun; which Rotation is effected from the compounding of two different Powers; the Centripetal, which is the common Gravity of Bodies, that mutually attract each other, and, if acting alone, would occaſion the Earth to be ſwallowed up by the Sun; and the Centrifugal, which is a Force impulſed upon all the Planets, at their Creation, that directs them forward, in a right Line, and, if not counteracted by the firſt Power, would propel the Body on, through in⯑finite Space, to all Eternity. Now both theſe Powers acting, by the almighty Oeconomy, upon our Earth, at the ſame Time, occaſion a Motion compounded of both theſe Cauſes; every Revolution of which is performed in that Period of Time, that is called a Year. From what I have ſaid it is plain, that, if the Centrifugal Power was taken away, the Earth muſt ruſh [172] into the Sun, and ſo be deſtroyed by Fire. But this would be a particular Act of the Almighty; and my Philoſophy is to explain the Poſſibility and Probability of this Effect, by plain and natural Means; which I apprehend may be occaſioned by increaſing the Weight of the Earth, and con⯑ſequently it's gravitating Powers: For I think natural Philoſophers agree, that Bodies attract, in Proportion to their Quantity of Matter; which, at a certain Degree, will make the Cen⯑tripetal overcome the Centrifugal Force. Now my Opinion is, that every living Creature, Man, Brute, Inſect, &c. which has been produced ſince the Creation, has made an Addition of ſo much Matter to the Earth, as it's Weight came to at it's Birth. The Increaſe of Bulk, during it's Life, I make no Account of, becauſe that proceeds from the Conſumption of the Fruits of the Earth, which drawing their Nouriſhment from the Earth itſelf, alters only the Form, not the ſpecific Gravity; but that Weight, which the Creature brings into the World, is certainly an Addition, becauſe the Parent neither eats or drinks more, to bring the Foetus to Perfection, than if ſhe were not pregnant; and, if tried in Scales, would be found to be of equal Weight, before, and after—except in the Caſe of Sickneſs, or hard Labour; neither of which is the natural Conſequence of Procreation; as may be obſerved from Brutes, and other Ani⯑mals; [173] and from the Generality of the human Species too, who have not weakened or de⯑bauched their natural Forces by Luxury, Effe⯑minacy, or Exceſs. I have no Library here, ſo muſt be excuſed, if I am not as full, and as correct, upon this Subject, as I might be, if I were among my Books: But I always write to you in the ſame looſe Manner that Things occur to my Mind at firſt Thought; and often but juſt enter down Hints, to ſupply us with Topics for Converſation, when we are together.

I am particularly pleaſed at this Hypotheſis preſenting itſelf to my Reflection; as the ex⯑planation of any Prophecy, by natural Means, is a ſtronger Motive to our Belief, than the mere Faith of it, from a Miracle. Now the Deſtruction of the World by Fire was de⯑nounced, as I apprehend, long before the Laws of Aſtronomy, or the Gravitation of Matter, was ſufficiently known, to authorize ſuch an Hypotheſis as this; and, as I am not quite or⯑thodox inſome Points, I own that I heartily re⯑joice, when I can make Amends in others; and, in reaſoning about Religion, or contemplating the Ways of Providence, I think we ought, in a ſtronger and more particular Manner, to apply an Obſervation, which I remember out of Lon⯑ginus: That, in the reading of Homer, Plato, or any of thoſe precious Spirits of Antiquity, when any Paſſages occur, to which we cannot readily [174] reconcile our Reaſon, we ought firmly to be⯑lieve that, were thoſe great Genii preſent to explain themſelves, we ſhould, to our Confuſion, be convinced, that we only were guilty of thoſe Errors, which we blindly charged upon them.

I think I may now lay myſelf down to ſleep, eſteeming this Eſſay in the Place of a Prayer: And may I have the Bleſſing of it in my Dreams, by meeting you there in perfect Health!

Adieu!

LETTER CCXXXVIII.

NO Words can expreſs the diſtracted Situa⯑tion of my Mind, nor give you any Idea of the ill Treatment I have received from —. Indeed, neither my Health nor Spirits can hold out much longer: But I will do all I can to ſupport myſelf under the complicated Pains of Body and Mind, which I at preſent feel, 'till I ſee you; then gladly part with them and Life together.

I know you will condemn me for letting my Spirits ſink; but, as you do not know the Cauſe, let not my ſweet Love judge too harſhly from the Effects. A little Time will clear me from the Imputation of wanting either Philo⯑ſophy or Religion: Indeed the latter is my only Refuge. I am ſure the Almighty will never forſake me. I know too he orders all Things right, and that my preſent Diſtreſs may be pro⯑ductive of my future Happineſs. In the Sin⯑cerity of my Heart, I bleſs the Hand that chaſteneth; and can ſay, from my inmoſt Soul, his Will, not mine, be done! Yet ſtill, as a frail Mortal, I cannot help feeling I am hurt, and complaining to you (though I do not re⯑pine); for ‘Sighs, and Cries, by Nature, grow on Pain.’

Your Account of your Journey to —, and Manner of lying there, has made me vaſtly uneaſy. If you have one Grain of Affection for me, you will take Care to preſerve my Life, my Health, my Happineſs, for they are all bound up, and centered in my deareſt Harry's.

I met with a very ſevere Shock from the Ac⯑count of Mrs. —'s Death. There is yet no Certainty of it; but I much fear it is too true. [176] They ſay ſhe died in Child-bed. It is very poſſible thoſe Barbarians, ſhe was among, have murdered her—vile Wretches! I have not Pa⯑tience with them: Better they had all died, than my poor, dear Friend! Her Failings are now forgotten: Nay, I know not that ſhe had any: But I am ſure ſhe had a thouſand Virtues. Oh! ſhe is happy! But her poor little Children! thoſe Hottentots will kill them.—I wiſh it were in my Power to ſerve them.

Adieu, my Heart's dear Harry! While I am myſelf, I ſhall be your's.

LETTER CCXXXIX.

YOUR Letter of the 9th has given me a great deal of Concern. Repreſent your Si⯑tuation particularly to Lady —; for to me you have ſpoken only in general Terms; and ſtrictly follow her friendly and conſiderate Advice. My Fortunes ſhall be your's, ſo uſe them freely; and that I did not offer this before, was from a Regard to your Character, which I have very nice and honeſt Reaſons to be tender of. I could, with Pleaſure, wear Sackcloth, and live on Bread and Water, ‘to cloath you in Purple, and [177] make you fare ſumptuouſly every Day.’ In ſhort, I am ſuch an Adventurer in this World, that, if I have Luck, there's nothing in it; and if not, no Oeconomy can ſave my Fortune. A Year's Induſtry will not make me rich; but a Minute's Reflection can reconcile me to Po⯑verty. The utmoſt Diligence can but eſtabliſh that Fund, which may be thought neceſſary to this Life, and which Socrates or Pliny needs not, at preſent: But let us cultivate that Treaſure, which will ſupply us to Eternity, and may help us to bear a Part with thoſe precious Spirits, who are happy before us.

Your Sentiment is both philoſophic and re⯑ligious, "that your preſent Diſtreſs may produce your future Happineſs." Socrates ſaid, he owed all his Philoſophy to his Wife. Every Man ſhould endeavour to be a Philoſopher, not ſo much to ſupport himſelf in Death, as to be able to endure Life; and, when Misfortunes or Mor⯑tifications come upon us, inſtead of repining, we ſhould thank Providence for the lucky Occaſions of exerciſing that Virtue. A wretched Man has greater Scope for Virtue, than a happy Man; and a poor Man, than a rich.

I could ſay a great deal more upon this Sub⯑ject; but I would not prevent your own Re⯑flections.

LETTER CCXL.

I AM infinitely obliged to my dear Harry for his very affectionate Letter. Though I am far from doubting your Love or Conſtancy; yet I receive freſh Pleaſure from every new Aſſurance of both; as one is pleaſed to hear good News repeated, though it does not want Confirmation.

Adverſity is certainly the School of Virtue and of Wiſdom. We feel our own Defects; and, by the Loſs of any Happineſs or Ad⯑vantage, firſt diſcover our own Unworthineſs, and His Goodneſs, who gave that, and every other Bleſſing, which we enjoy. For my own Part, I will ſay, with the Pſalmiſt, ‘it is good for me that I have been afflicted.’

Though your dear Letter has made me vaſtly eaſier, than I was, I am not yet calm enough to write about my Affairs to Lady —; be⯑ſides, I am unwilling to determine on any thing, 'till I ſee, and conſult you. Adieu!

LETTER CCXLI.

I AM ſorry any Accident ſhould prevent our Letters from paſſing in a regular Courſe: Indeed it is of little Conſequence what becomes [179] of mine, but as they may occaſion a Diſappoint⯑ment to you.

You deſire to know what affects my Mind.— It would be impoſſible to recount the Multiplicity of Things, which diſtreſs me.—It is true, there is a Cauſe painfully eminent above the reſt, which, when we meet, I fear you will think too ſoon to know; 'till then, the Sorrow, it occaſions, ſhall be all my own: ‘For it is the Wretch's Comfort ſtill to have ſome little Hoard of Grief, ſome unknown Woe; which they may weep, and wail, and, Glutton-like, devour alone.’

Indeed, my deareſt Life, I would rather ſuffer any Thing, than diſtreſs you. I am ſincerely ſorry, I even mentioned my Illneſs to you; but I will complain no more, therefore pardon what is paſt.

I have been in a continual Hurry all Day: It is now very late; ſo muſt conclude with wiſhing you a thouſand times good Night!

LETTER CCXLII. HENRY to FRANCES.

I SENT off an Expreſs to —, and reco⯑vered your Letter of the third. I return you Lady —'s Letter, which is very kind. You cannot imagine what Pleaſure your ſaying ſhe ſtays here for the Winter has given me. It is a very lucky, as well as pleaſing Circum⯑ſtance for you, at this particular Time; which is enough to ſhew you, how happy this Account has made me. [...]

I ſhall go to Town in the Beginning of the Term; but am extremely uneaſy to know what is the Meaning of the Hint, you gave me in your laſt Letter, ‘that you have ſomething to ſay to me, which you will not mention, 'till we meet.’ I beg, my Fanny, you will explain yourſelf by next Poſt.

I am now returned to Montaigne, which I quitted for Pliny, at your Requeſt; and I make it a Rule to give you my Obſervations upon every Book I read.

[181]In his Hiſtory of the three moſt excellent Men, he names Homer, Alexander, and Epaminondas. By Excellence, here, he ſeems merely to con⯑ſider this Expreſſion, with regard to Fame only: But I think he has not, as one might expect, given us Examples from different Claſſes. The firſt is a Poet, the ſecond a Soldier, and ſo is the third, when I expected a Philoſopher; and here I would name Plato, or better, Socrates: But perhaps Montaigne conſidered Epaminondas in this Claſs, and in the higheſt Degree, as he is recorded to have practiſed what others only teach.

Montaigne makes a good Defence for repreſent⯑ing human Nature not much to it's Advantage; as, in general, the French Writers are apt to do: "Others make Men, I but report them."

I am pleaſed to find he had ſome of my Whims: He mentions one, which, you may remember, I ſometimes hinted to you; of taking a particular Fancy to ſome one Glaſs laid down at Table, though of equal Dimenſions with the reſt, out of which I often take a greater Pleaſure in drinking; nay, I have gone ſo far, once or twice, as to pay a Man's Club for the Exchange of his Glaſs. Whence ſuch Caprices, as this, proceed, I do not remember that any of the Expoſitors upon human Nature have accounted; and I think it would be an ingenious and amuſing Subject to inquire into.

[182]This puts me in Mind of a Theme, I have a great Mind to recommend for a Premium to the Society of Dijon, in France; which is an Eſſay upon Metaphorical Taſte; being a Liking, or Admiration, not confined to, or deducible from, the eſtabliſhed Rules of Beauty, Harmony, Order, or Truth, which ſhould be the natural or rational Foundations of our Approbation. Why is the Mind of Man, when endued with what is called Taſte, delighted with extravagant Flights in Poetry, extraordinary Metaphors, Ex⯑ceſſes in Grammar, Chromatics in Muſic, &c? How come we to be charmed with Things, which offend common Senſe, or ſhock the natural Ear? And from what Turn of Caprice does it proceed, that the very Errors and Faults of ſome of the Arts and Sciences are eſteemed as Beauties? Nay, to ſhew that Taſte is not only above, but even ſometimes averſe from rational Admiration, we need but recollect the Pleaſure we receive from viewing ſome of the Deformities of Nature, as Rocks, Precipices, &c. and at the ſame Time remember, that we are ſenſible of a certain Horror, during the Contemplation.

Have you ſeen that Piece, which carried the laſt Premium at Dijon, upon this Theſis, Whe⯑ther the Re-eſtabliſhment of Arts and Sciences has contributed to the Refinement of Manners? I have read it, and like the Side of the Queſtion [183] he has choſen, by denying it. I think, the Subject might have been handled more at large, and to better Advantage, than the Author has done there.

What does it import us to know the Springs of Good and Ill, while we do thoſe Things, which we ought not to have done, and leave undone thoſe Things, which we ought to have done? I have not yet ſeen the Anſwer to it; but, when I have, I ſhall probably determine the Diſpute like Sir Roger de Coverley, by concluding "that much may be ſaid on both Sides."

What the Genevan ſays of Learning with regard to Morals, I have often ſaid of it with regard to Underſtanding — That it has ſo over⯑loaded the Mind of Man, that, like too full a Stomach, the digeſtive Powers have not Room to exert themſelves; or it has confined our Reflections, by ſetting Bounds to our Inquiries, or given us a Biaſs out of the right Road, by obliging us to think too much after one another, and following in a beaten Track. When Reaſon attempts to exerciſe herſelf in the Mind of the Learned, ſhe finds it, like a Storehouſe, ſo filled with the old Trumpery of the Antients, that ſhe has hardly Room to ſtretch her Limbs. I am for recurring up to the Original of all [184] Things, and drinking Truth at the Fountain-head; not quenching my Thirſt of Knowledge in polluted Streams. Rivers, in paſſing through populous Cities, acquire indeed a Softneſs and a Richneſs, but loſe the Sweetneſs and Purity, which they brought from their Spring. If you want to inform yourſelf of Art or Science, withdraw to your Study; if of Truth or Nature, retire within yourſelf. Reading ſhould be your Exerciſe, but Reflection your Study. Senſe is a Bottle of Eſſence, which loſes it's Strength by Dilatation; or like a Wedge of Gold, which, hammered into Plates, or drawn into Wire, extends it's Dimenſions, but weakens it's Subſtance.

LETTER CCXLIII. FRANCES to HENRY.

ROchefoucault ſays, ‘In the Adverſity of our beſt Friends we find ſomething that does not diſpleaſe us.’ I will not abſolutely ſay this Maxim is verified in you; yet I cannot help obſerving, with what vaſt Calmneſs you have endured my Misfortunes. I do indeed believe, [185] that the Diſtreſſes of others furniſh the beſt Opportunity for exerting our Philoſophy.

And then we have ſuch a charming Superiority, by making light of thoſe Misfortunes, which do not affect ourſelves. But I ſhould be glad to ſee one of our modern Philoſophers endure the Loſs of Health with that Indifference, they recommend to others.

If Lady — ſtays in the Kingdom, which is yet doubtful, ſhe will not come to London the whole Winter. I heartily wiſh ſhe may hold her Reſolution of ſtaying at —, as I hope and believe I ſhall ſpend ſome Time with her; for I am abſolutely determined not to continue here long. When we meet, you ſhall know my Reaſons; which, I fancy, will be ſufficient to make you entirely of my Opinion: In the mean Time, I ſhall exert the little Strength of Body and Mind, I have left, to bear up againſt the Diſtreſſes of both, without complaining. I muſt intreat, for the preſent, you will not deſire any Explanation from me; for I am reſolved not to enter into Particulars, 'till I ſee you; which I never ſo earneſtly longed for, as now. I could almoſt wiſh, you were as im⯑patient to ſee me; we ſhould then meet before "the Beginning of Term." However, a few [186] Days will make no great Difference; and I am content to wait, 'till Buſineſs anſwers the ſame End as Inclination.

Though I never wanted the Aid of Philoſophy more than now, I find myſelf leſs qualified than ever to ſeek it's Help: ‘In Pain, Philoſophy is Spleen; in Health, 'tis only Eaſe.’ — Perhaps it is owing to my Want of Health, that I find my Mind a perfect Chaos. I have not Attention ſufficient to read for a Quarter of an Hour. I perceive myſelf frequently abſent in Company, without being able to recollect, what I was thinking of: Strange Situation! — When wilt thou recall me to myſelf? If you have fixed the Time of your coming to Town, let me know by Return of the Poſt, that I may be certified, not how long, but when I ſhall live.

LETTER CCXLIV. HENRY to FRANCES.

I RECEIVED a Letter from you, juſt as I was leaving Belvidere Yeſterday, which has ſurprized me more than any thing I have ever met with.

[187]The Reaſon of applying thoſe philoſophic Lectures, which you are offended at, was from this Blunder: That I thought the Loſs of Health, Fortune, Friends, or any other Unhappineſs of Life, was the proper Seaſon to recommend ſuch Medicines; and it ought to be obſerved, I did not uſe ſuch Reflections to ſhew how I could bear your Misfortunes, but to inſtruct and aſſiſt you to ſupport yourſelf under them. He, who would comfort another, comes not, as I appre⯑hended, with Sighs and Groans.

I ſhall never, upon any Occaſion, trouble you with more of my Philoſophy, but ſhall always cheriſh it in my Heart; becauſe, at this Time, it ſtands your Friend, and helps me to conclude myſelf, as uſual,

LETTER CCXLV.

I RETURN you Lady —'s Letter, and am pleaſed to find, that you ſtill hold on a Correſpondence with her. I love her for rallying your Spirits. I am aſhamed for my Fanny, with two ſuch philoſophic Friends, to be ſo caſt down. She ſeems to ſolicit your writing often to her, [188] which ſurely I need not intreat you to obey; but ſhall only leave you more at Liberty to do ſo, by letting you know, that, if Time preſſes, I will take your having wrote to her, as a ſufficient Apology for your leaving me to hunt through the Stores of Antiquity for ſomething to amuſe me, in the room of thoſe Letters you neglect to me. How much do I regard your Advantage, before my own Pleaſure? And for any Favour, ſhe can ever do me, I thus pay the Price before-hand.

I thank you for your kind Sentiments with Regard to paſſing your Time with me; and it is certain that thoſe Portions of Life, which we ſpend agreeably to ourſelves, are all that can be computed in a Philoſopher's Kalendar. I am pleaſed with the Epitaph, which Similis, a General under Adrian, directed to be inſcribed on his Tomb-ſtone. He had ſpent a long Life in Perils and Fatigues, 'till about ſeven Years before his Death; when he retired to his Villa, paſſing his Time as became a Man of Religion, Senſe, and Philoſophy. The Latin is, ‘Hic jacet Similis, cujus Aetas multorum Annorum ſuit: Ipſe ſeptem duntaxat Annos vixit.’ I will attempt the Tranſlation for you:

For my Part, I have made three Diviſions of my Time; and, according to the Diſtinctions [189] I make, there are but two Portions of them to be attributed to my Life. When I am in Company, I paſs my Time; when I am alone, I ſpend it; and, while I am with you, I enjoy it.

Since the Election at —, I have had the Happineſs to be entirely alone; which the Hurry, I was then in, has given me a thorough Reliſh for. I do not think it amiſs to conſider the World as a Priſon; where we are ſubject to ſuch Company, as Chance, Neceſſity, Vice, or Misfortune, have aſſociated us with: And Soli⯑tude may be deemed the true Siege of Freedom; as there alone we can be Maſters of Ourſelves, our Time, and Occupations. The only Thing, in which I think Auguſtus attempted to be great, was his Wiſh to live, to retire; but he was never great enough to execute that noble Sen⯑timent. It is ſomewhere ſaid, that ‘Privacy and Freedom is the Wiſh of the Great, but the Privilege of the Mean.’ The Life, I lead at preſent, is certainly the End propoſed of all the Labours and Perils of the Great, in all States of Life; then what a true, philoſophic Pleaſure muſt a Man be ſenſible of, who has reached this Goal, without being out of Breath for it! while he looks back, with Compaſſion, upon Millions, who are ſweating and toiling, caſting away Pomps, Faſces, and Fortune, to make themſelves light for the Race, and ſhoul⯑dering through oppoſing Crouds, to come up [190] to him! What the Philoſopher Cyneas ſaid to Pyrrhus might be here applied, but that I hate Quotations; however, I ſhall give you one: Diogenes ſaid, that ‘Ariſtotle muſt go to Din⯑ner, when Alexander's Bell rung; but he was at Liberty to wait for the Summons of his Appetite.’ In the World, we are obliged to act by Rule; but, in Retirement, we can act according to Reaſon.

Adieu, thou dear Object or Idea of thoſe Portions of Time, which I treaſure up as the only Parts of my Life!

LETTER CCXLVI.

I AM much obliged to my dear Harry for the Indulgence he is ſo kind to grant me: I have a much better Right to plead that Privilege, at preſent, than I can ever have from writing to Lady —, or any other Perſon; which is my being utterly incapable of writing, from real Illneſs. I have been all Day on the Bed; and, though I ventured to Bond-Street, in hopes of rouzing my Spirits, I find myſelf ſo very weak and languid, that I am hardly able to hold the Pen. I have had a ſevere Fit of the Rheumatiſm in my Arm; which, joined to a conſtant Cough, [191] prevents my ſleeping an Hour at a Time, the whole Night.

I am aſhamed of living a conſtant Com⯑plainant. I think, it would be but decent in me to die; for, indeed, I am quite weary of Life: But ‘Death comes not at Call, nor mends his ſloweſt Pace for Plaints or Cries.’

I am extremely glad you are ſo happy in your Retirement. I would by no means have you quit it, for the tumultuous Haunts of buſy, idle Men. Let me, at leaſt, have the Satisfaction of thinking you are well, and well pleaſed; which is the only Thing on Earth, that can give real Pleaſure to my deareſt Life's own ſick

LETTER CCXLVII.

I SENT to the Poſt Yeſterday, but had no Letter from you; which I ſhould have been extremely uneaſy at, but that Kitty ſent me on▪ from you to her, which does not ſay you are worſe, though you ſtill complain. I came over here, juſt after I wrote laſt to you, and break⯑faſted with Kitty in my Way. This was but the ſecond Time I have ſeen her, ſince you left her; which ſhe ſeems picqued at, and complains [192] that I am grown peeviſh; for ſhe is one of thoſe, who cannot diſtinguiſh between Gravity and Ill-humour, or knows any Difference between Reproof and Scolding.

I enjoy as much Solitude here, as I did lately at Belvidere; and live after my own Manner, which is, not to dine 'till Night. I am more the Hermit here too, which makes ſome Variety; for I dreſs my own Meals, broil my Chops, and roaſt my Potatoes, by my Chamber Fire; for I chuſe them clean; and they are but flatternly People, who rent this Houſe from me, though they are Engliſh, and Proteſtants. I do aſſure you, my Life, that I grudge myſelf every Morſel I eat in this or any Retirement, unenjoyed by thee; and would very chearfully faſt three Days, for the Pleaſure of your dining with me the fourth.

As I have a Way of philoſophizing upon even the moſt trifling Occaſions, I have begun to look upon Epicuriſm in a very different Light, from what I have always conſidered it. It is certain, that the Epicure has a greater and more frequent Enjoyment of Life, than a Man of vulgar Appetite. I grant, that the reducing our Wants to as few Things as poſſible, has more of the Philoſopher in it; but, perhaps, to multiply our Pleaſures may be the more ſenſible Scheme, within the Bounds of Reaſon and Innocence. They, who argue againſt this Voluptuouſneſs, [193] may, from the ſame Rule, prohibit a refined Taſte for Letters, Painting, or Muſic. But, though they ſhould indulge us a little in (what they call) rational Pleaſures, they will find, that all their vain Philoſophy againſt the Enjoyments of Senſe, is but a certain Stoical Pride, which would pretend to ſet human Nature above any Satisfaction, which they may have in common with Brutes. I wonder, they have not yet at⯑tempted to ſtop our Breath and Motion, becauſe Brutes have both.

I am, my deareſt Life, while I have Appetite, Breath, or Motion, your own rational Brute.

LETTER CCXLVIII.

AS I know it will give my ſweet Love Pleaſure, I find a very ſincere one in being able to acquaint him, that I am vaſtly better, than when I wrote laſt. My Cough is ſomewhat abated, and I have ſlept tolerably well theſe two Nights.

I fancy, I live as retired, in the midſt of a great City, as you in your Hermitage. I cook for myſelf, and drink (rather than eat) by my⯑ſelf; for I live entirely on Broth, Chocolate, and Tea. I find, Slops agree with me much [194] better than Meat; for I am ſurely ſick, if I touch it.

My Wiſhes for you are not confined to Meal-Times, nor do I ſuppoſe your's are: No Moment paſſes, but I ſigh for you: What do I ſuffer in being ſeparated from thee! When, when ſhall we meet, to part no more?

I am ſo far an Epicurean, as to believe, that Providence deſigned a full and perfect Uſe of all it's Bounties to his Creature, Man.

Elſe wherefore, with an unwithdrawing Hand, did he create them? It is the Abuſe of theſe, which conſtitutes the Crime; and which, in general, bears it's Puniſhment in the very Com⯑miſſion of it.

They, who indulge the Gratification of any Appetite to Exceſs, are far below the Brutes; and to debar ourſelves of any Enjoyment, within the Bounds of Innocence and Reaſon, is ‘to live like Nature's Baſtards, not her Sons.’ Every Perſon's particular Circumſtances ought to fix the Bounds of their Self-Indulgence; for there are many Gratifications, which would be criminal in me, that may be both reaſonable and innocent for a Perſon, who has a large Fortune. [195] Were I Miſtreſs of ten thouſand Pounds a Year, I would not wiſh to multiply my Deſires, (which are now confined within a very narrow Com⯑paſs) becauſe, by not having many of my own, I might gratify others; which is to me the higheſt Enjoyment, human Nature is capable of. There, indeed, we riſe ſuperior to the Brute Creation, who, I believe, have much the Ad⯑vantage in all ſenſual Pleaſures; for theirs are unmoleſted with Intemperance or Remorſe. Yet I do not think this is a Cauſe for us to ſpurn the rational Enjoyment of thoſe Pleaſures, we have in common with the Animal World: Let us rather follow their Example in thoſe Par⯑ticulars, where we appear moſt on a Level with them, by following, not oppreſſing Nature; which is, in them, another Name for (what we call) Reaſon.

I have been inſenſibly led into a Subject, which, I am conſcious, I am by no Means capable of treating juſtly: But you, I am ſure, will excuſe my Errors on this and every Occa⯑ſion; as they proceed only from the Weakneſs of my Head, not Badneſs of my Heart; which is filled and guarded by your loved Idea.

Adieu, my utmoſt Wiſh, my fond Deſire, and only Hope! My Life, my Love, adieu!

LETTER CCXLIX.

YOU reproach me gallantly enough with only wiſhing for your Company at Board: But indeed, my Love, I have one conſtant, equal Earneſtneſs toward you, which is never broke through; except that I wiſh for your Company with a more particular Fondneſs upon ſome Occaſions, when I happen to be in ſuch a Situation, or romantic Circumſtance, as I know would ſuit your Taſte, or give you an additional Reliſh to my Company. Have you not ſome⯑times, during a conſtant Tenor of Health, per⯑ceived, at particular Periods, a certain Lightneſs of Heart, and Wantonneſs of Fancy, which you could not account for? ſomewhat like the Gleam of Chearfulneſs in the Mind, which is raiſed by the ſudden Rays of Sunſhine, breaking through a Cloud. Something analogous to this I am frequently ſenſible of toward you. My Love is never leſs than Health; but my Fond⯑neſs often riſes to an Exceſs of Ardor, equal to thoſe extraordinary Spirits I am alluding to: And, as theſe Flights of the Soul ſeem to be it's Eſſays towards a more perfect State, I may be ſaid to love you, in general, like a Man; but, upon ſuch extraordinary Occaſions, to adore you with the Fervor of an Angel.

[197]I am extremely pleaſed at the little Eſſay, I led you into, upon the Epicurean Philoſophy; for, upon all ſuch Occaſions, my dear little Philoſopher acquits herſelf with Juſtneſs of Sen⯑timent, and Elegance of Expreſſion. I wiſh greatly, that you had Leiſure to exert your Strength more frequently upon ſuch Topics; for, believe no Flatterer, you have a native Force of Mind, which, as ſome Poet expreſſes it, ‘Leaves puzzled Learning lab'ring far behind.’

Adieu, my Pleaſure!

LETTER CCL.

I SEND you incloſed a Letter, I had laſt Poſt, from Tom; which is a great Improvement to the uneaſy Situation I am in at preſent, and likely to be farther involved in.

[...]

I am, my deareſt Fanny, in theſe, and many Circumſtances, too irkſome to trouble you with, extremely to be pitied. I find now the great Benefit and Bleſſing of that Turn of Mind, which I have, for theſe two Years paſt, en⯑deavoured to cultivate in myſelf; to prevent the [198] Conſequences of a very warm, violent, and precipitate Diſpoſition of Temper, which I was born with, and indulged in too much, during the former Part of my Life. It is not, when Misfortunes come upon us, the Time to ſet about the Philoſophy of bearing, or the Reſignation of ſubmitting to them: It is in Health we ſhould prepare ourſelves againſt Sickneſs, or the Invalid may find his Couch his Grave.

I have brought a very ſevere Cold from —, which breaks in upon my Scheme of Solitude, as it confines me entirely within Doors. It has not yet made any Attack upon my Throat, which is all the Danger I ever apprehend from that Diſorder.

Adieu, my Life, my Love!

LETTER CCLI.

I AM particularly concerned at your Cough; for it is the worſt Symptom of a Cold, and what your ſlight Conſtitution, inclined to an Hectic and Decay, is very little able to bear. My Love to the India Folk, becauſe you ſay they have been very kind and affectionate to you.

I am diſpleaſed at your ſaying, you are weary of Life: It is, at leaſt, unkind, if not ſomething [199] worſe: It is the Sign of a Lowneſs of Spirits, and a Careleſſneſs; which is much below your Senſe, Virtue, or Religion. I cannot excuſe any one for ſpeaking without Thought, who is capable of thinking ſo well. It was ſaid by one of the Antients, ‘that a patient Reſignation to neceſſary Evils was next to the Merit of a voluntary Martyrdom.’ This was a fine Saying in the Days of ſuperſtitious Enthuſiaſm, when Men officiouſly threw themſelves in the Way of Perſecution, in order to merit the eighth Beatitude; but, at preſent, the firſt Virtue, mentioned above, ſtands unrivalled. Let Men repine at what Misfortune they will, it will be found, upon Examination, that their Loſs of Patience is the greateſt Evil they labour under. The abſurd Notion of natural Right to the good Things of this Life, occaſions our Uneaſineſs at their Loſs; but conſider Matters philoſophically or religiouſly, and all the Concern vaniſhes. We cannot challenge a Property in any Thing, from Providence, in this Life; for we were not in a Condition to make Terms for ourſelves, before we came into it; but we ſhould conſider ourſelves here, in an happy State of eſtabliſhing an indefeaſible Right to the higheſt Enjoyments of the next. Neither Health or Fortune we can call our own, where every Thing fluctuates inceſſantly; and, if our Furniture be Glaſs, why ſhould we be ſurprized at it's being broken? [200] And it is as vain and ridiculous to grieve at any Loſs of worldly Advantage, as it would be to be mortified, becauſe

Which is the only Diſtich, I remember, of a Poem, I wrote, ſome Years ago, upon this very Subject.

Now obſerve, ma Seule, et chere Mignonne, that I am not ſcolding, but only philoſophizing; which being premiſed, I ſhall go on with an Obſervation, I have made, long ſince, upon one of the Beatitudes; I forget which, in Order; but the Text is, ‘Bleſſed are the Poor in Spirit,’ &c. Here is, methinks, an Inſtance, among many, of the Difference between the Chriſtian and Heathen Philoſophy; which ſome Authors, vain of the natural Reaſon of Man, have affirmed to be the ſame. The latter teaches us Contempt for Riches, and Fortitude in Misfortunes: But the former inſpires us with a Reſignation to Poverty, and Patience under Sufferings. One but increaſes the ſavage Fierce⯑neſs of Man's Nature into a Pride and Stoiciſm above it: The other ſoftens us into a Spirit of Humility and Meekneſs, not below, but con⯑ſonant to, the imperfect State of Man in this Life. While Men, either before, or during their Ignorance of, Revelation, conſidered themſelves [201] only with Regard to this Life, perhaps the Heroiſm of Stoic Philoſophy might ſufficiently anſwer the Purpoſes of human Nature, in this confined View: But of what Uſe are Virtues, Sentiments, or Affections, cultivated here, which can never be exerted in that State, where there will be no Pomps fit to contemn, or Misfortunes to oblige us to ſuffer? while the Spirit of Meek⯑neſs and Humility will ſufficiently anſwer our Ends here, and is the proper Temper to prepare us for the Enjoyment of Love, and Contem⯑plation, which are the Occupations of the Bleſt above.

As your Cold has probably taken away what little Appetite you had, I ſhall ſend you up, by Thurſday's Stage, a Crock of the fineſt pickled Walnuts, you ever ſaw or taſted. I wiſh I could ſend you ſome of my Mutton, as little, and as ſweet, (but ſomewhat fatter) as yourſelf. My Hams, however, will ſoon come, and I ſhall carry up ſome of them for you.—Sweet, good Night!—

Take Notice, that I always kiſs my Letters going to you, as I do thoſe I receive from you; and have juſt put my Lips to the Expreſſion, "the Bleſt above," thy ſole Superiors.

LETTER CCLII. FRANCES to HENRY.

AMIDST the Noiſe and Impertinence, I am at preſent ſurrounded with, I am indeed utterly incapable of anſwering your very elegant Treatiſe; but, incumbered as I am with Multitudes, I can love and thank you for it. Indeed, my ſweet Love, you can reconcile me to any Misfortune, but your Abſence; for, while you prove, from Philoſophy and Religion, the trifling Value, we ought to ſet on what are called the good Things of this Life, you ſtill inhance your own. My Love, my Friendſhip, my Eſteem, ſeem to increaſe daily, though it is long ſince I thought I had arrived at the higheſt Degree of each, for thee, my Life, my Love!

I thank you for your intended Preſent: I doubt not their being excellent; but, alas! unſhared by thee, what Delicacy can pleaſe? Haſte then, my Love, to give me a Reliſh for every Enjoy⯑ment; for I neither know, wiſh, nor hope for any, but in thee.

While I preſſed the dear Spot, which thou hadſt bleſſed with the Impreſſion of thy Lips, I found a Joy, which might indeed be felt even [203] by angelic Natures; unmixed with any Paſſion, that might diſgrace an Angel; my Soul ſeemed ready to iſſue at my Lips, in hopes of meeting thine. None, but thoſe who love like you and me, can have an Idea of ſuch Pleaſures.

I have ſpent the Day at your Brother's, where there are a little Hundred met to be merry: They pity my Melancholy; for, indeed, I am not gay: But I feel a higher Satisfaction, than the broadeſt Mirth is capable of, in ſubſcribing myſelf, faithfully and affectionately,

LETTER CCLIII. HENRY to FRANCES.

I AM at a Loſs to know, whether my Love or Pride is moſt gratified at your kind Ac⯑ceptance of thoſe little occaſional Eſſays, which I ſometimes ſend you, for your Amuſement, or Guidance in Life; but I ſhall refer the Satis⯑faction to my Love, as that comprehends my beſt and higheſt Pride too. It is but juſt in me to make you ſome Return of that Philoſophy, which you have taught me: But in this Science you are infinitely my Superior; for I can but create in you a Diſregard for the Things ſtiled [204] of this World, merely by ſhewing their Trivial⯑neſs and Vanity in themſelves; but you have inſpired me with an utter Contempt of them, by putting them in Compariſon with your own Worth. However, my Philoſophy is neither of the Cynic or Miſanthrope Kind: I have neither an Averſion to Men or Things; for I can very well indulge myſelf with both; but then I con⯑ſider them like a Dream or a Feaſt, which ſerve as Amuſements for the Time, and leave either no Longing, or a Satiety, behind. Indeed, I take the true Uſe of Philoſophy to be, not to vex ourſelves in Proſperity, but to comfort us in Adverſity. In ſhort, we need not be ſo rigidly on our Guard againſt the Pleaſures of this Life; for they ſeldom happen, or continue long enough to ſoften or emaſculate our Natures: But Diſ⯑appointments or Misfortunes are the Things, which are moſt familiar to us; and yet, by our Uneaſineſs, ſeem the Things, which we are leaſt uſed to. Moſt of the Mortifications, we complain of, are what we owe to one another; a great many of which may be avoided, if we juſtly conſidered Men but as Tools. An In⯑ſtrument, which has not Sharpneſs enough for a Razor, may have Strength ſufficient for a Paring-Shovel; and that, which has not Toughneſs for an Hammer, may have proper Weight for a Mallet. Now, to inſtance in Men: — would make a miſerable Confidant; but, if you are to [205] make an Apology, he can tell an admirable Lye for you. — is not of Stuff to make a Friend, but nobody directs a Coachman to Ranelagh better. —, indeed, cannot write Letters; but ſure he can carry them to the Poſt. — would be but an indifferent Comforter in Affliction; but then he can make you laugh, and forget it. So that a tolerable Judgment, upon the different Characters of Mankind, may help us to work ſome uſeful End, even out of the Worſt and Meaneſt: And, as to the Evils and Goods of Life, a religious Senſe of them will be found to be the only true philoſophic one — to conſider the firſt as a Reprobation of our Faults, and ſo amend; and the latter as a Reward of our Virtues, and ſo perſevere.

I took a ſolitary Walk in my Fields this Evening, contemplating upon ſuch Subjects as theſe; and think, I never obſerved a more beautiful Weſtern Sky, at the Setting of the Sun. This ſhall be the Teſt with me, whether there be a true poetical Genius in this Iſland, at preſent; for ſuch a one muſt certainly, like Prometheus, catch Fire at the Sun in ſo much Glory: For no Perſon can be eminent in this Art, who has not a ſtrong Enthuſiaſm about the Beauties of Nature; nor without a certain inſpired, though not an acquired Knowledge of the Philoſophy of it too. What are all the Hints and Alluſions to Arts and Sciences, ſome [206] of them unknown to the World, and others ſuppoſed to be ſo to himſelf, which the Com⯑mentators mark out in Homer's Works, but a Sort of Prae-ſentiment, or, as it were, a Flight at Science, which duller Mortals were forced to earn thro' the Labour of Academies? I think, ſuch Inſtances as theſe, with Dreams, and many other Proofs of ſtronger Force, may be brought as Arguments for the Independence of the human Soul upon Matter: For, tho' we ſhould allow the Materialiſts, that the Knowledge, we attain from the Deductions of Reaſoning or Reflection, may be but the natural Effect of the animal Spirits upon the Fibres of the Brain, which is the unintelligible Jargon they ſpeak; yet ſurely the Diſcoveries, we ſometimes make, without any Deduction at all, cannot be accounted for from the mere Organization of Matter, but muſt ariſe from a certain Impulſe foreign to it.

LETTER CCLIV. FRANCES to HENRY.

AS I am thoroughly convinced, that my dear Harry is a much better Judge of his own Affairs, than I can pretend to be, I will never [207] let my Over-anxiouſneſs for his Welfare betray me into ſo great an Error, as offering my Advice; but reſt ſatisfied with believing, that he will uſe every honeſt and prudent Means for our mutual Happineſs.

I was ſo extremely ill on Saturday, that I was not able to hold a Pen. The continual Diſtraction and Uneaſineſs of my Mind has almoſt deſtroyed my little Body. I am doubly unhappy, that your Circumſtances prevent your coming to Town: Your Preſence would ſoften all my Sorrows, and ſubdue even Pain and Sickneſs. How have I flattered myſelf, that you longed as ardently to ſee me, as I do to ſee you! and yet you will not anſwer to my oft-repeated Queſtion, When will you come? I am impatient at your Abſence, and yet afraid to wiſh you here. The Situation of your Affairs diſtracts me: I do not regard myſelf, but cannot bear to think that you are unhappy. Do not be angry with me, Harry, for ſaying, that I moſt earneſtly wiſh and pray the Almighty to take me to his Mercy. I know my Death would be of Uſe to you: Your Father, and all your Friends, would then be free from any Apprehenſion of your injuring yourſelf for an unhappy Woman, who would die to ſerve you. That ſingle Conſideration could diſarm the Spectre of his Terrors, and take away his Sting; for I could part with thee, my Life, my [208] Love, my Soul, to ſave thee from Misfortune and Diſtreſs!

My Spirits are ſo entirely ſunk, that I am utterly unable to write: You may ſcold, if you pleaſe; but, indeed, I cannot get the better of myſelf.

Adieu, then, my Soul's Hope, my Life's Pain and Pleaſure!

LETTER CCLV. FRANCES to HENRY.

THOUGH I am thoroughly convinced, that my Letters cannot afford you the leaſt Entertainment, yet I think it in ſome meaſure incumbent on me to acknowledge your's; as inſolvent Debtors are more frequently obliged to make Promiſes to their Creditors, than thoſe who are able, but not willing, to pay. Like them too, my oft-repeated Thanks only prove my Poverty; but, were I capable of making any other Return, I would rather pay, than own, the Debt. You muſt then, my dear Teacher, accept the little All, I have to offer, as freely, as I give it; my Love, Eſteem, and Gratitude, which are, indeed, ſincerely your's.

[209]I am afraid to write any more, leſt I ſhould enter into the Melpomene Strain; for, notwith⯑ſtanding all your Precepts, I cannot, will not be ſatisfied, while you withhold my primum Mobile, your dear Self, from me. Indeed, Harry, though you do not know it, your Philoſophy renders you cold and indifferent to me; elſe how is it poſſible for you to abſtain from even wiſhing to be with me?—Hang up Philoſophy!—I will have done. —You ſhall not be teazed with my Complaints, though ſure I have much Cauſe to be uneaſy; for, in thy Abſence, Joy is ſeen no more.—

May that Health and Chearfulneſs, which is fled from me, be doubled to my Love, and I will not regret them.

LETTER CCLVI.

AS I have had no Letter from you laſt Poſt, I ſhall employ that Portion of Time, which is more particularly dedicated to you three Times a Week, in communicating to you ſuch Reflections as occur to me, at preſent; which I take juſt in the very Order they ſucceed one another in my own Mind.

[210]I am, forſooth, a great Philoſopher:—I prac⯑tiſe it in myſelf, and perform it to all the World. In the ſevereſt Trials, I think I ſhould be able to exhibit myſelf to the Satisfaction of all Spec⯑tators. In a Gaol, I could comfort myſelf with theſe Reflections: ‘Here I can enjoy a perfect Vacation from all Buſineſs or Care: All Soli⯑citude after Honours, and all Anxiety about Fortune, are uſeleſs here, becauſe incom⯑patible with my preſent State. I can here give up my whole Time to Reading and Contemplation, without the Reproach of Idleneſs; and can here indulge my much-loved Solitude, without the Imputation of a miſanthrope Singularity. Here my Occupa⯑tion and my Leiſure are all my own; for few intrude upon the Wretch's Levee. Wel⯑come the Interruption of thoſe that do; for he muſt be a Friend indeed, who ſeeks us in a Gaol. Happy then, thrice-happy State, which, at the ſame Time, proves our Virtue, and approves our Friends!’ Even in the Day of Sickneſs, and the Night of Death, could I ſuſtain the Pains, and ſurvey the Terrors, with an unſhaken Mind, from this Soliloquy: ‘Grant, juſt God, that the Vices, Errors, and Follies, of my paſt intemperate Youth, may be oppoſed, at the great Day of Account, againſt the humane Offices I have performed in Act, and the general Benevolence I have [211] always had in Will, even to the vaſt Circle of all created or poſſible Beings of the Univerſe; and, in this Hope, welcome thou glorious Death, ſo much dreaded, becauſe ſo little underſtood!’

‘Thou happy Minute, the firſt of Immortality, how have Men traduced thee, by comparing thee to a long Sleep! but Sleep is a tedious Death, while Death is but an inſtant Sleep.’

Yet, with all this Appearance of Philoſophy, I am prone to Anger, Paſſion, and Reſentment; and, though I am ſufficiently aware of this Foible, and ſet the whole Force of my Reaſon againſt it, I am not Maſter enough of myſelf to preſerve my Temper ſometimes, upon the ſlighteſt Provocation, even of the Folly of a Child. Now what is the Reaſon of ſuch a re⯑markable Inconſiſtency in my Character, has been the Subject of this Hour's Contemplation; and I have attributed it to this; that Nature muſt univerſally prevail, and will always be found too ſtrong for Art. In the firſt Inſtances, I mentioned to you, I owe my Philoſophy to an happy Turn of Conſtitution and Genius; to a certain Careleſſneſs about, and ſovereign Con⯑tempt [212] for, the Things of this Life, when they are out of my Power, though nobody enjoys them more, when they are within my Reach; and an elevated Hope, and ſtrong Conviction of the Enjoyments of the other World; by the frequent Contemplation of which I have happily improved Nature into an Habit of Philoſophy: But, in the latter Caſe, I am almoſt afraid Art will never be able to conquer Nature; though, at ſome Times, it may govern, or diſguiſe it; becauſe, perhaps, trifling Occaſions do not ſufficiently call upon my Philoſophy to exert itſelf; and no Army is ſo ſoon overcome, as that which too much deſpiſes it's Enemy.

Adieu!

LETTER CCLVII.

YOUR Letters fill me, at once, with the extremeſt pleaſure, and the tendereſt Con⯑cern. My Heart melts in me, while I read thy Thoughts: A Kind of gentle Tremor throbs my Breaſt, which is not to be deſcribed, nor underſtood by any, who have not felt the Ex⯑tremes of Joy, and Grief, which I have known for thee. The little Underſtanding I am Miſtreſs of is charmed with truly philoſophic Sentiments: But the fond Woman is hurried into Grief and Madneſs, at the bare Mention [213] of thoſe Subjects, which are, indeed, the real, but ſevere Trials of our Religion and Philo⯑ſophy. I have many Times been ſo weak (you, perhaps, may call it cruel) as to lament the Poſ⯑ſibility of your dying. I am certain, I ſhall never be able to think of your Death, either in a chriſtian or philoſophic Light. Let me intreat you never to mention it more: Indeed I cannot bear the Thought.— ‘Forlorn of thee, whither ſhould I betake me? where ſubſiſt?’ Oh! if you love me, Harry, the ſingle Conſideration of my Diſtreſs, in being torn from thee, ſhould make you even anxious to delay your future Happineſs. You would not call the Moment of our Separation an happy one, were thy Soul linked to mine, as mine to thee.

I doubt not but you will think my Tender⯑neſs, upon this Occaſion, intirely ſelfiſh: Indeed I grant it is ſo;—for I would leave thee, Harry; with Tranſport leave thee! well knowing that my Death would be conducive to thy Happineſs. Your Religion and Philoſophy would prevent [214] the Effects of your natural Tenderneſs.—My little, happy Spirit (for ſuch, I doubt not, it would be) ſhould miniſter unſeen to thy gentle Sorrow, and bring thee Peace and Comfort from above. My Mind is ſomewhat chear'd by this laſt Hope.

I ſhall conclude my Letter here, as it would be the Art of ſinking, to mention even our Meeting in this World; which, indeed, I begin to deſpair of; but, in a ſtrong Hope of our future Happineſs, I ſubſcribe myſelf,

LETTER CCLVIII. FRANCES to HENRY.

I AM vaſtly uneaſy at not hearing from you laſt Poſt. I have a thouſand Apprehenſions, leſt ſome Accident ſhould have befallen my Heart's Treaſure; for I am ſure he is not ca⯑pable of neglecting me. The Badneſs of the Weather adds to my Concern. Every Drop of Rain, that falls, ſhrinks me, as if it touched my Heart, when I think that thou, it's deareſt Part, art, perhaps, expoſed to it. I work myſelf into an hundred different Terrors, on your Account; yet ſtill I hope that God, in whom we truſt, [215] will protect and ſave thee from every Danger: ‘He ſhall give his Angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy Ways.’

I flatter myſelf, that To-morrow's Poſt will bring me glad Tidings: 'Till then, I will en⯑deavour to ſuſpend my Fears; but, for the pre⯑ſent, my Mind is too much diſturbed to allow my writing on any Subject, that could afford you the leaſt Entertainment. What would I not give to be with you this Moment? I ſhould find more Joy in being wet, dirty, and tired, on that Occaſion, than all the Pleaſures of this World can give me. I have often longed for Gyges' Ring; but never ſo much as now. I have frequently amuſed myſelf with thinking of the extreme Pleaſure I ſhould have in ſur⯑priſing you with my Preſence, at the very Moment you were, perhaps, lamenting my Abſence, or wiſhing for me to ſhare in the rational Delight, you ſometimes receive, from a fine Paſſage in a favourite Author. This Whim has entertained me much; and, by the Force of Fancy, I have ſpent many delightful Hours in your Muſaeum, when you little thought I was ſo near you. I have, in the ſame Manner, accompanied you many a Mile in your Evening Walks, and held long Con⯑verſations with you, though you, perhaps, never utttered a Syllable, during the Time of ſuch imaginary Diſcourſe. I never found any thing [216] in Caſtle-building half ſo pleaſant as this:—It annihilates both Time and Space, and brings us together, in ſpight of the Severity of that ill Fate, which parts us. But I hope ſoon to ſee this, and all other imaginary Joys, realized in the ſubſtantial Bliſs of ſeeing and converſing with thee, my deareſt Harry.

I am in ſome Concern about my two laſt Letters directed to Belvidere, as you left Home before they could reach you. There was one of them incloſed in your Brother's, which I fear your Uncle has opened.—Let me know their Fate, as ſoon as you are acquainted with it.

Adieu, my Heart's Delight! I am, with Love, Truth, and Conſtancy, ever your's.

LETTER CCLIX.

I HAVE paſſed a very diſagreeable Time of it, ſince I ſet out; for the Hoſts, I have met with, thought the beſt Way to make me wel⯑come was to make me drunk. Conſider how irkſome it muſt be, for a Man to be forced to a Thing, which he does not like, who does not even care to be preſſed to what he does. What a terrible Thing muſt it be for one, who hates drink, to be obliged to it, without any Induce⯑ment toward it; to keep Company with Men, [217] that I would rather even get drunk than con⯑verſe with; and yet to be under the Neceſſity of doing both at the ſame Time. At —, I was ill-treated with Corporation Politics, and ſour Claret; and at —, with Puns and Beer. At length, I have eſcaped hither, to my agree⯑able Friend —; where I ſhall, as it were, perform Quarantine, before I betake my im⯑patient Steps toward thy Feaſt of Reaſon.

LETTER CCLX.

THOUGH I think I have been pretty much uſed to Diſappointments, I find I am not yet Philoſopher enough to bear them without a ſenſible Chagrin. Perhaps it is owing to the punctual Exactneſs of my own Diſpoſition, that I am hurt at the moſt trifling Breach of Promiſe, when committed by any Perſon, for whom I have the leaſt Regard. For theſe Reaſons, I have felt more Uneaſineſs at the frequent Diſappointment of my Expectations, with Regard to your coming to Town, than I ſhould from a Certainty of your not coming theſe ſix Months.—But a Truce with the Sub⯑ject; [218] for I am determined never to mention it more.

I am mighty glad you have eſcaped from the diſagreeable Circumſtances you mention, and are ſo happy with your agreeable Friend. As it is not in my Power to make you Amends for the Loſs of his Converſation, I ſhall not detain you longer, than while I ſubſcribe myſelf,

LETTER CCLXI.

I AM returned home ſafe to my Elyſium, and did not ſee ſo ſweet a Place ſince I left it. A Cow dead, two Sheep, ſix Turkeys, two Ducks, and a Gooſe, ſtolen, was all my Loſs, while I was away. I forgot; a Ferret died. Theſe Things have greatly ruffled the Calmneſs of my Uncle's Humour, eſpecially the firſt; for it was one of my Weaver's Cows, which I had ſold to him, about a Month before; and thought it between half honeſt and half humane to make good his Loſs. My Uncle diſputed very logi⯑cally with me, upon this Head; that it was not an Act which Honeſty required, becauſe I had fulfilled my Part already, in delivering the Cow; and was not to be a Guarantee againſt Accidents. He ſaid, that Humanity was no [219] more concerned with him, than any other Ob⯑ject of Charity, &c. &c. All which I acknow⯑ledge to be true; and yet I had ſome ſtrong Idea roving in my Mind, that I was but acting juſtly; not from any particular Law of Mo⯑rality or Religion, but from ſomething higher, that adapts itſelf to many nice Circumſtances, which expreſs Laws cannot reach. This is, I ſuppoſe, what the Philoſophers and Divines ſtile Conſcience; ſomething, as Prior expreſſes it,

There is, certainly, ſuch a Thing as original Truth, coeval with Eternity; Part of the Eſſence of God, and not a Law of his ordaining. This is that charming Idea, which the Mind of Man contemplates in itſelf with ſo much philoſophic Rapture. This primitive Reaſon is the great Criterion, which guides noble or uninſlaved Minds, when they ſee fit to depart from, ex⯑ceed, or act directly oppoſite to the expreſs Laws of God, or Man; which being but im⯑perfect Deductions from that original Source, neceſſarily eſtabliſhed for the Regulation of Men's Lives, who have not Senſe or Leiſure to contemplate the native Beauty of Truth, or Virtue enough to embrace it, may be deviated, according as Reaſon or Conſcience inſtructs the unprejudiced Mind, the great Law would have [220] been directed in ſuch a particular Caſe or In⯑ſtance. I am extremely provoked at the un⯑philoſophic Aſſertion of Deſcartes, ‘that two and two make four, not from original Ne⯑ceſſity, but becauſe God Almighty willed it ſo.’

I have juſt ſent to the Stage; and, if a Place be vacant, I ſhall go up to Town in it.

LETTER CCLXII.

NOT one Word from my Pet theſe two Poſts! Perhaps you did not get my Letters regularly, while I was on my Route; for I did not know the Courſe of the Poſts, as well as I do at home. You ſee how ready I am to make an Excuſe for you; and attribute your Omiſſion to any thing, rather than vex myſelf with vain Fears of your Sickneſs or Neglect; but, in ſuch a Caſe, I know that my dear Heautontimorumenos would immediately conclude me indifferent to her, or dead to myſelf:—And indeed you may as well ſuppoſe me one, as the other.

But this is nothing to the principal Buſineſs of this Letter; which is to deſire Tea exactly at Seven o'Clock, on Tueſday Evening.

As, I dare ſay, my Life thinks this Account Entertainment enough for this Poſt, I ſhall huſ⯑band what little Wit, or Senſe, I have, for another Occaſion, and conclude myſelf,

LETTER CCLXIII.

I AM alone here; for my Uncle is in the Rheumatiſm again at —. I want nothing but you, to compleat my Happineſs here. You cannot imagine the different Senſations I have in this preſent Vacation, from what I am ſenſible of, when I have peeviſh or difficult People to deal with. In ſhort, Peace is, to the Mind, what Health Is to the Body, Grace to Religion, and Chearfulneſs to Virtue. Without theſe en⯑livening Qualities, how dead and inactive are all their Subjects! Without them all, how poor an Animal is Man! When endowed with them, what a noble and amiable Creature! The Love of Gods, and the emulating Envy [222] of Angels! Nay, how much more glorious is the State of a good Man, than even Angels themſelves! We ſuppoſe them, at firſt, made perfect, and guiltleſs to Sin; but mere Man, by the Power of his own Virtue, can render himſelf equal to that Perfection, which was, at once, the Act of Omnipotence, with Regard to them. You ſee I lay hold on every fair Oc⯑caſion of raiſing the Dignity of human Nature above the diſingenuous and unphiloſophic Sar⯑caſms of Theophraſtus, La Bruyere, Rochefoucault, Swift, and the Tribe of Authors of that Stamp. Such Satiriſts are unjuſtly ſtiled Moraliſts; which is the Title they vainly arrogate to themſelves.

LETTER CCLXIV.

I WAS affronted laſt Poſt; but you have made Amends this, by giving a Reaſon for your Neglect. You are a good Pet now, be⯑cauſe you was not a Pet when I wrote a little warmly to you lately. You behaved once, or twice, in the ſame Manner, at —; which gives me Hopes of your reforming from the only [223] Fault, I ever charged you with. I did not ſay I would have no more Complaining, as if I would not liſten to any Pain or Diſtreſs of your's, in order to conſole and relieve it. What I ſaid was the frequent Doubts and Appre⯑henſions you ſeemed to have about my Love, my Honour, Kindneſs, &c. were irkſome enough, and inexcuſable, becauſe they could anſwer no End; for ſuch Methods as theſe were the moſt unlikely Way in the World, to cure the Maladies you complain of. If I do not love you, how will Complaints avail? If I do, they are an ungrateful Return. If I am a Man of Honour, your Doubts are ungenerous: If I am a Scoundrel, ſuch Suſpicions and uneaſy Al⯑tercations but juſtify my Baſeneſs. This, all this, and more than this, have I often ſaid and wrote to you; and it is ſurpriſing, that we ſhould have had, for ſome Time paſt, any Con⯑verſation on this Head. But, as this is the laſt Time, now remember, I am bound for my good Pet, I ſhall conclude with obſerving, that Good-Humour and Confidence has preſerved more Affections, than ever Senſe or Contracts could ſecure.

You cannot imagine, my dear Fanny, what Satisfaction I received from the eaſy, reaſonable, and good-humoured Manner, in which you an⯑ſwered the Letter I hint at; and, as all the Epocha's of my Life are marked from ſome [224] Particular relative to you, I may ſay, I begin now to live; ſince I may promiſe myſelf to do ſo, without Fear of offending you.

Give the incloſed to my Brother. I expect to be in London on Thurſday Evening, or Friday Morning, at fartheſt.

I am, my deareſt Fanny, your's in Honour, Conſtancy, Chearfulneſs, and Good-humour.

LETTER CCLXV. FRANCES to HENRY.

HOW vaſtly am I indebted to that Tender⯑neſs, which even prevents my Deſires, and gratifies my fondeſt Wiſh, before it is ſcarce formed! Indeed, thou deareſt, beſt of Men, my Heart is fruitful with a thouſand Thoughts of Gratitude and Love to thee. Every Moment recalls ſome Image of thy Kindneſs to me, and fills my Eyes with Tears, more pleaſing than "the broadeſt Mirth unfeeling Folly wears."

I felt every Blaſt of the rude Wind, that durſt oppoſe thee; and almoſt envied it the Happineſs, it was inſenſible to, of kiſſing thy Lips. Let me, my deareſt Love, intreat you, by that Regard you have for my Health and Happineſs, to take Care of that, on which they both depend; and no longer trifle with the [225] Pain, which your preſent Diſorder gives me. Remember, I have your Promiſe to take Emetics, if you do not find Benefit from the Rhubarb. Indeed, if you knew what I ſuffer from your Illneſs, you would do every Thing in your Power to relieve me.

I ſhall take Care of your dear little Epitome, and hope, "^* the full Interpretation of Time" will render it worthy of the Commiſſion, you have aſſigned it; and give me Leave to ſay, that my ſincereſt Wiſh is now, and ever ſhall be, to deſerve the Compliment you make me.

The Painter took away your Picture, but it is no Matter; ſince neither Time nor Abſence can efface the much more lively and more lovely one, that is painted on my Heart.

I cannot help repeating my Deſire of hearing from you, tho' I know it is needleſs; as I am ſure my dear Harry will do every Thing to alleviate the otherwiſe inſupportable Pains of Abſence. Adieu!

LETTER CCLXVI.

I HAVE ſet up here at the old Inn; though you all ſay it is a bad one: This may be a Reaſon for new Gueſts not to come, but not for old ones to quit it. I always ſuppoſe, in ſuch Caſes, that Poverty is the Reaſon of bad Accommodations; and make it a Sort of Cha⯑rity, to ſupport the Indigent; and, when I eat or lye badly, it helps Digeſtion, and ſoftens my Repoſe, to conſider that others eat or ſleep the better for it. I made a vile Breakfaſt at —, this Morning, from this Turn of Mind; though I had forſworn the old Houſe, upon my going up to Town laſt. Such Reflections as theſe, my dear Fanny, are extremely pleaſant; and their being uncommon is, perhaps, one of the Reaſons, I amuſe myſelf with them.

I halted here, in order to write to —, inſtead of paying him a Viſit; for I do Buſineſs better by Proxy, than in Perſon. The Reaſon that I write better than I ſpeak, is not, as Dryden obſerves upon Perſius, that I have a Difficulty in finding a Meaning; but rather, as the ſame Critic remarks upon Juvenal, ‘car il eſt bon de ſe fair valoir,’ that it is hard to chuſe one. I have too much Fancy, and am [227] too nice about my Expreſſion, to explain myſelf off-hand diſtinctly and intelligibly. Beſides, the Perſons and Objects, which ſtrike on my Eyes, throw me into a Confuſion, which hinders my Judgment from having fair Play to exert itſelf, My Ideas reſemble a Painter's Pallet, where you have great Variety of Colours lying together, without Harmony or Order; 'till a ſkilful Pen⯑cil has blended them into proper Lights and Shades, to compoſe an agreeable Picture. This Difference between my Writing and Speaking muſt be very obvious to you, with whom I have correſponded, almoſt conſtantly, for above five Years paſt: And, upon a Review of my Letters lately, I do not recollect to have repeated the ſame Sentiment twice; yet I remember to have ſaid the ſame Words, in Converſation, to you, an hundred times.

Every Mile I rode, ſince I left Town, my Impatience to ſee Belvidere has increaſed. — Perhaps, the Affection, I have for it, being ſuſpended, while I was with you, (the greater Paſſion abſorbing the leſs) was then ſet at liberty to operate, when we parted; or, perhaps, the Thoughts of quitting, as is natural in ſoft Minds, have the more attender'd me toward it. If I thought there was a Naiad or Dryad in the Place, who would lament my Abſence, I ſhould ſacrifice my Intereſt to my Superſtition; but my Religion teaching me, that, where-ever we go, [228] our Guardian-Angel accompanies us, I think I but obey it's Call, whenever I change my Situation to my wholeſome Advantage.

I would have you, by all means, write to Lady —. You may alſo preſent my Duty to her, as ſhe is to you a Mother.

Adieu, my Life! my double Life now!

LETTER CCLXVII.

I BELIEVE, I need not take much Pains to aſſure my dear Harry, that nothing, but a very ſevere Illneſs, could have prevented my writing laſt Poſt. However, I hope his own Thoughts furniſhed him with ſome other Cauſe for my Silence; and that he had not the leaſt Apprehenſion of the terrible Situation, his poor Fanny was in. I was ſeized with a Contraction in my Stomach on Wedneſday Morning, attended with an unuſual Pain; but, as I had Intervals of Eaſe, I hoped it would go off. I dreſſed myſelf, in order to go to —; but, finding myſelf grow worſe every Hour, I was, at laſt, obliged to ſend an Apology. The Pain threw me into perfect Convulſions; and, in ſpite of all the Medicines which were given me, I continued on the Rack 'till Friday Morning, when a violent Emetic gave me Eaſe. I am now free from Pain, but ſo extremely weak, that I cannot walk from my [229] Bed to the Dining-Room, without Help. Even in thoſe Moments, which I thought my laſt, I rejoiced you were not with me; as your Sufferings would have added to mine, and made them more than I could bear. Beſides, I ſhould not have had any Thing to ſtruggle for, had you been preſent; but the earneſt Deſire, I have again to ſee thee, gave me Strength to encounter thoſe Agonies, that would have torn me from thee, my more than Life! I would not let Tom write to acquaint you with my Illneſs, leſt your Apprehenſion ſhould ſuggeſt ſomething even worſe than the Reality.

I now congratulate you on my Recovery, and ſhall proceed to thank my ſweet Harry for both his Letters.

There is, doubtleſs, ſomething inexpreſſibly charming in reflecting on thoſe Exerciſes of Humanity, which my dear practic Philoſopher is ſo conſtantly employed in: But, with regard to the two recent Inſtances you mention, I cannot help thinking, that it is rather doing a general Injury, than a particular Charity, to ſupport Perſons in any Profeſſion, which their Want of Capacity, Induſtry, or a proper Fund, renders them unfit for: Theſe Perſons, ſo diſ⯑qualified, prevent others, who may be capable, from engaging in that Buſineſs, which they do not execute; while themſelves might become uſeful Members of Society, in another Situation. [230] You may, perhaps, think this Way of arguing too ſevere: But, were we not to regard the general Good more than that of Individuals, the Tenderneſs of our Diſpoſitions might impel us to Acts of the higheſt Injuſtice, and lead us, perhaps, to the Reſcue of a Murderer; if we did not reflect on the ſalutary Effects, which Examples produce, in the general Community. But, while I talk with ſuch ſeeming Strictneſs, my Heart and Pen diſagree; and an inward Conſciouſneſs of the many Failings, I am in⯑cident to, ſtrongly reminds me of the mutual Claim, which every Part of the Creation has to each other's Indulgence; and, perhaps, none has more Need of it, than my poor, faulty, helpleſs Self.

I can very eaſily account for your being able to write in a more clear and diſtinct Manner, than you ſpeak: For, beſides the Confuſion of Ideas, which you have found ſo juſt and pretty a Reſemblance for, you have, probably, more Modeſty than any Man, who has lived ſo long, and been ſo converſant with the World, as you have; and I am ſure there are Men, who are not poſſeſſed of the thouſandth Part of your Underſtanding or Knowledge, who could make a better Figure in a general Converſation.

[231]You expreſs much Reluctance at parting with the Child of your Fancy; and I will allow your Attachment too to be a reaſonable one: But, like good Reaſon, let it give way to better; and remember, "Your Home is every-where." I am, perhaps, partial to this new Scheme, as I firſt mentioned it; for this, if for no other Reaſon; you cannot condemn me for deſiring it's Succeſs, as my utmoſt Wiſh has ever been to become, in ſome Shape or other, the Means of Good to thee. Let me then, my ſweet Love, flatter myſelf, that, in this Affair, I was the Agent to thy Guardian-Angel, and pointed out the Road to thy future Advantage. But I will not inforce the Subject farther; as I am ſure you will do every Thing, which Senſe and Prudence direct.

Health, Peace, and Competence attend my Love!

LETTER CCLXVIII.

YOU have made but a more cruel Apology for your Silence laſt Poſt, than that Silence itſelf. You cannot imagine what Anxiety I went through, in reading your Letter. You, indeed, [232] I apprehended, was well and ſafe, from your writing; but I expected a Lapſus Linguae at every Line. The Remedy I knew to be pleaſant, but the Delay of the Cure intolerably tedious. I am not ſo fond of this Life, as to deſire to renew my Age; but I ſhould wiſh moſt ardently to revive it in my Poſterity.

I muſt inſiſt upon it, that, 'till I ſee you again, which ſhall be the ſooner for your Compliance with this Requeſt, you are in Bed, every Night, by Eleven o'Clock, — as much ſooner, as you pleaſe; and up at Eight, — as much earlier, as you will; and that, in every other Particular, you will live, as we ſhould do together, alone at Belvidere, or whatever Place we may here⯑after ſpend and enjoy our Lives together in.

There is ſomething very juſt in your Remarks upon my partial Humanity: But I remember to have obſerved ſomewhat to you lately, upon this Subject,

This Diſpute between us puts me in mind of a parallel Difference between Swift and Pope, in their Letters to each other; but, tho' we ſome⯑times argue on different Sides of the Queſtion, I am ſatisfied we ſhall always agree in acting the ſame Way.

I have not mentioned a Word to my own Family of my Correſpondence with —; nor [233] ſhall I, 'till it is finiſhed. I muſt now ſhorten my Letter to you, that I may have Time to lengthen one to him; the Copy of which I deſign to ſend you, and deſire you will return it to me.

LETTER CCLXIX.

AND ſo, Sir, your chief Concern was for Bab! Indeed, Bab's Mam is affronted; tho' I may venture to aſſure you, ſhe was more anxious for it, than herſelf. I have as little Fondneſs for Life, as moſt People; nor is there ‘a ſingle Hour o'erpaſs'd, that I could wiſh ſhould take it's Turn again:’ Yet I acknow⯑ledge the ſame Deſire, which you expreſs; and, I am perſuaded, feel it infinitely ſtronger, than you can do, at preſent. There is the ſame Kind of Difference in our Attachment to the dear little one, as in our Affection for each other. You were the firſt and only Object of my Love: For you I felt all the romantic Tenderneſs of a firſt Paſſion; while you, who had loved much and many, were utterly in⯑ſenſible to all the ſoft Inquietudes, the indearing Anguiſh, the heart-rending Fears, which Pro⯑vidence, in Mercy to Mankind, decreed ſhould never be re-felt.

[234]I am to be ſent to Bed at Eleven o'Clock, and made to get up at Eight, for Bab's Sake; and theſe are the Conditions, you annex to your Coming. Indeed, my ſweet Love, I will comply with them, or any other Command of your's, not grudgingly, nor of Neceſſity, but with the utmoſt Chearfulneſs; as it ſhall always be my higheſt Pride to love, honour, and obey thee, my Guide, Guardian, Kinſman, Father, Friend.

I ſhould, indeed, be vaſtly aſhamed of myſelf, did I argue againſt your Sentiments, from my own: But, as you firſt enter on thoſe Subjects, you leave me only the wrong Side of the Ar⯑gument; which I ſometimes take up, for the Pleaſure of being fully confirmed in the right by you. With Regard to the late Matter in Queſtion, you may be thoroughly aſſured, that both our Ways of thinking and acting will ever be the ſame; for I hope, and believe, I have as much Humanity in my Diſpoſition, as any Perſon I ever knew, except yourſelf. Did I not love you extremely, I ſhould envy your Supe⯑riority there, and there alone.

Rejoice with me! I have had two whole Days ſacred to Peace and Contemplation — But they are over, and Noiſe and Folly re-aſſume their Throne.

I have ſent you the Anſwer to the Eſſay on Spirit: I know not whom it was wrote by — nor do I know what I am now writing, for the [235] Hurricane is begun. Oh, for a little Nutſhell of my own!

I rejoice in this fine Weather, becauſe you enjoy it; though I cannot help lamenting my own Confinement, doubly uneaſy from the Diſ⯑agreeableneſs of my Companion. But I will bear it patiently, in hopes of happier Days; Days ſpent with thee. When, oh! when will that Time come?

Adieu, my deareſt Life! I am, and ever ſhall be, your's.

LETTER CCLXX.

AND ſo, Madam, you are jealous of Bab, are you? I have known ſuch Inſtances with regard to dead Rivals, but none before of Objects not yet in Being. However, I ſhall allow you ſome Foundation for your Jealouſy here; for, if any Thing ever rivals you, it muſt be ſome new Perfection of your's; for nothing can excel you, but what is derived from you. Prior makes but a lame Compliment to his Miſtreſs, "I'll love thee o'er again in Age;" for this hints rather a Revival, than a Con⯑tinuance, of his Paſſion: But I ſay, I will love thee o'er in Youth; which ſhews a Conſtancy [236] of the ſame Affection: And I hope I may con⯑clude with an Alluſion to the Lines upon the Spectator, ‘'Tis the ſame Sun, and does itſelf ſucceed.’

I have not received the Anſwer to the Eſſay on Spirit, which you ſaid you had ſent me, nor the Copies of my laſt Letters to —. I am ſincerely concerned for the Biſhop; for, though I think his Sentiments are right, yet I muſt agree, with the World, that he was wrong in publiſhing them. In his Situation it would have been prudent rather to conform to Rule, than ſubmit to Reaſon; and I am afraid, that it would have done leſs Hurt to his Orthodoxy, in the Conclave, to have made an Eſſay upon the Fleſh, than the Spirit.

I am, my deareſt Fanny, your's alone, both in Fleſh and Spirit.

LETTER CCLXXI.

I AM here attending the Aſſizes, and enjoyed but one Day at home. I muſt be confined here this Week, but depend upon the Alto Relievo of your charming Letters, to bear me [237] thro' it; one of which I received Yeſterday, and expect two more, before I return to Belvidere.

I do aſſure you, as a Truth, that I have not felt the leaſt Symptom of the Cholic, ſince I left —. In ſhort, there is ſomething extra⯑ordinary in my Diſorder; for ſurely the Cure of ſo remarkable a Caſe could not be ſo ſuddenly or ſo ſlightly performed; for I live as uſual, except in one Particular, that I go to Bed, and riſe, early. If this be my Remedy, it is a very eaſy one, when abſent from you: For what Entertainment ſhall retain me at Board, or what Pleaſure detain me in Bed, when you, my Society and Happineſs at both, are diſtant from me?

I here ſend you my Anſwer to —'s genteel Letter.

The Prologue, you ſent me, is, in general, very well, has a good Turn and Spirit of Poetry in it; but there is one vile Line, as it has but a ſimple Meaning in itſelf, and no Sort of Context with the reſt: ‘To greet his Shade this grateful Night we give.’ "A Foe to Folly, but the Friend of Man," is an old Line: I think, it is in Rocheſter's Poem upon Dorſet's Satires, where alſo is this Line, ‘The beſt good Man, with the worſt-natur'd Muſe.’ But ſomewhere, I am ſure, I have ſeen it before.

[238]Adieu, my Maſter-work of Art and Nature; whom no Satire can inveſt without, nor Adu⯑lation can corrupt within! Farewell, while I do ſo; for our Happineſs is one!

The Poſt is come in, and no Letter from you—Unkind!

LETTER CCLXXII.

I AM not, my deareſt Harry, a ſufficient Miſtreſs of Language to expreſs the heart-felt Pleaſure, which your Letters give me: They fill my Mind with ſuch a Kind of Rapture, as ariſes from reflecting on any extraordinary Benefit, we have received from Providence: It is a Mixture of Praiſe, Gratitude, and Love. Indeed, every Act of Kindneſs of your's raiſes me to the beſt and trueſt Devotion. I admire and bleſs the Greatneſs and Goodneſs of that Almighty Being, who formed thee; while my Heart overflows with the moſt thankful Senſe of his unmerited Benevolence, in being graciouſly pleaſed to make thee mine.

You ſay, you have enjoyed but one Day at home, ſince we parted; and I have been but one Day abroad: So we remain equal Debtors to Pleaſure, if that Term may be juſtly applied to any Circumſtance, Time, or Place, I meet with, in your Abſence.

[239]You have already, I hope, received my Excuſe for not writing by Thurſday's Poſt—Unkind!— how couldſt thou deem me ſo?

I will not, becauſe I cannot, tell you how ſincerely I rejoice at hearing you have got the better of your Cholic. I have not had any Return, that ſignifies, of my Diſorder; but am ſtill very lame, and ſuffer much from the Rheumatiſm.

I think your Letter to — an exceſſive clever one: It ſhews, at once, the Man of Senſe and Buſineſs; but ſtill you ſay nothing of your own Affairs, and ſeem more inclined to adviſe, than engage with him.

I hear, Lady — is to be in Town in a few Days; ſo think it needleſs to write. I have not any Thing new to acquaint you with: Every Thing and Perſon are juſt in the ſame Situation, you left them.

I will ſend you the Anſwer to the Eſſay on Spirit next Poſt; 'till then, adieu, my Love!

LETTER CCLXXIII.

I RECEIVED your Letter; and, ſince you are well once more, obſerve, that I will never give you Credit for being ſick again; and I hope you will never have Diſcredit for being irregular, to which, believe me, all your Complaints are owing. At the ſame Time, I diſclaim any Com⯑paſſion from, you too, when I am ill again of my old Diſorder; for, from the Diſcontinuance of it, ſince I left Town, I am convinced, that early Hours, and ſupperleſs Slumbers, are the abſolute Cure for it. As truly as that Vice produces Vice, Exceſſes, being of the ſame Nature, beget each other. We ought certainly to ſit up after Supper; then we ſhall, as ſurely, lie a-bed in the Morning; and, conſequently, a late Breakfaſt falls too ſuddenly upon Dinner; then a ſlight Repaſt keeps back the natural. Appetite 'till Night, when the Irregularity muſt, of courſe, begin again. And yet the Cure is eaſy; for, but any one Exceſs in this Rotation being omitted, the whole will fall again into it's due Order; as, by ſtopping any ſingle Point of a Circle, you arreſt the whole.

Juſt as I had gone ſo far, a poor Boy begged at my Door, in the Stile of a poor Scholar, and [241] modeſtly aſked for nothing but Paper. It ſeems, he is orphan'd both of Father and Mother, and lives from Cottage to Cottage in the Pariſh where he was born. The Boy had a good honeſt Look, and I took him into Thompſon's Shop, and bound him Apprentice. I am pleaſed with the Thought of what charming Surprize it will be To-morrow to the whole Pariſh, when they inquire after their Foundling, to hear, that Providence met him begging in the Way, had Charity for him, and bound him to a Trade.

I am very glad to hear, that our Lady is coming to Town; but would not have you decline writing to her, on that Pretence. You can ſay many prettier and genteeler Things in a Letter, than you could in Perſon; and Writing, ſuch as your's, to ſuch Taſte and Underſtanding as her's, has confirmed more laſting Friendſhips, than ever Converſation did.

I have not hinted any Thing to this Houſe about my Correſpondence with —; nor ſhall I, 'till I ſee the Event of it. If it ſhould not anſwer your Expectations, I will not ſpeak of it at all. I would not, for fifty Guineas, I had not proceeded as far as I did; but my failing of Succeſs will not give me one Shilling's Worth of Concern. I ſhould be uneaſy at having paſſed over, through Neglect or Inadvertency, any Opportunity, Providence had thrown in my Way; but more particularly in this Caſe, as [242] you were the Index, which pointed out the Occaſion: But I have a Turn of Mind, that reconciles me to a Diſappointment in any Affair of Life, which does not happen through my own Fault.

Adieu, my Comfort! my only Coadjutor to my own Conſcience, farewell!

LETTER CCLXXIV.

I RETURNED this Day extremely fatigued from the Aſſizes; and, having roved through my Gardens and Fields, and looked over my Manufactures, while it was Light, I have but little more Time, than to write one Letter more to —, and to make a Copy of it for you. As our Correſpondence will be then cloſed, I may expect the Event of it ſoon; which, whatever it may be, you ſhall be immediately informed of. Perhaps, after I have given him the complete Plan of Operation, he may indeed proceed upon it, like Hudibras profiting of Ralpho's Gifts, but may employ ſome other Perſon to execute it for him. Why then there is but ſo much Ink and Paper waſted, for Trouble I make no Account of: And all I ſhall regret, is the precious Time I have thrown away, which might have been [243] ſo much more agreeably employed in writing to you; which though, in Fact, I have not neglected, yet I have wanted Leiſure to exert my Faculties in the Manner, I ſhould do, to your charming Apprehenſion.

Next Monday I go to —, to ſettle your Affairs in that Province.

I am, my deareſt Fanny, your faithful Truſtee, and indefatigable Agent.

LETTER CCLXXV.

INDEED, my ſweet Harry, I am very ill of a violent Cold, which I have got, without knowing how. I have a Cough, that would deafen you, if you was near me: It almoſt ſhakes me to Pieces, and hinders me from ſleeping the whole Night. If I am not better, I will be bled on Monday. Take Notice, I am neither peeviſh, nor low-ſpirited; and only mention my Illneſs, by way of Converſation.

Tho' I am utterly ignorant of every Thing, which relates to the Scheme of your Letters to —, I dare, from my own Opinion, pro⯑nounce it a perfect one; for Senſe, like Truth, will ſtrike Conviction on any intelligent Mind, without the Help of Demonſtration.

I am ſincerely glad to find you returned to your ſweet Retirement. May every Pleaſure, [244] which Virtue, Senſe, Health, and Tranquillity can beſtow, attend my deareſt Life! And be aſſured, my dear Harry, there is nothing in this World can ſo much alleviate the Pains of Abſence, and the many other diſagreeable Circumſtances, which attend my preſent Situ⯑ation, as the Thoughts of your being happy; and I ſolemnly declare, I would not, for any Conſideration, be perſuaded, that you felt as much Concern from our Separation, or wiſhed as ardently for me, as I do to be with you. There is a Kind of romantic Juſtice in this Sentiment, which pleaſes me, and, I hope, will not offend you; for, as you have ſuch a vaſt Superiority over me, in every Virtue, every Charm, the only Pre-eminence, I aſpire to, is that of loving moſt: Believe me, it is a painful one; and yet I will not part with it, nor bear to be rivalled, or outdone, in this my ſingle Merit, even by thee. Adieu!

LETTER CCLXXVI.

I HAVE three of your Letters lying before me now, which I had not Time to anſwer or remark upon before; as you know the Hurry, and Complication of Buſineſs, I am engaged in.

[245]As to —, whom you inquire about, I have not heard one Syllable, ſince his firſt, and only Letter to me. Tho' he ſaid then, he was to ſtay at — for a Fortnight; which Time was not elapſed, before he had my laſt Letter; yet, perhaps, he did not ſtay as long as he deſigned, and might have gone home, before I had finiſhed my Eſſay. This may account for the Delay of hearing from him: Or, perhaps, he has taken Time to conſider, and conſult ſome Friends about it. But, as I ſaid in a former Letter on this Head, I was ſo prepared, as not to ſuffer any Diſappointment, from the very firſt of my Application to him; ſo ſhall trouble myſelf no more about the Matter, unleſs I hear from him again; and then it ſhall be as a new Affair to me.

You have renewed a Subject, which we have had frequent Diſputes about; that my Senſe is better than your's, but your Love greater than mine. Now I ſhall ſtill argue both theſe Points with you; and the latter, I hope, I ſhall make, at leaſt, doubtful, during our Lives. If I have a ſtronger Senſe, you have a prettier one; and, if I appear to have any Advantage over you, in the Humility of your Opinion only, it is more owing to the Fortitude of my Mind, than the Excellence of my Underſtanding. As to the ſecond Point, it is out of Debate, as you ſeem to have given it up, by the firſt; for [246] a Man muſt love you in Proportion to his Underſtanding.

I did not mean to ſcold, but warn my Pet, when I hinted at Irregularities; which, I appre⯑hended, was the Occaſion of the heavy Cold, you complained of. What I meant was ſitting up, and lying in Bed, late; both of which are very bad, in a double Senſe, at preſent. But I am quite eaſy, ſince you have promiſed to conform to the Rules, I ſhall preſcribe to you: As you likewiſe know my Sentiments already, I need not repeat them; for I have that Con⯑fidence in you, that you will ſtrictly govern yourſelf by them. Nor need I endeavour to give them Weight, by hinting to you, that not only your own Health and Spirits, but the Health, Strength, and Happineſs of that, which may, one Day, be as dear to you as your own, entirely depend upon the prudent Regimen of yourſelf, at this Time. I am up every Morning at Five, tho' I do not go to Bed 'till Twelve; and, notwithſtanding the Labour of Body, and Anxiety of Mind, I go through, all the Day, I feel ſuch Chearfulneſs and Flow of Spirits about me, owing to this alone, that I cannot contain myſelf from ſinging and dancing about my Fields, like one ſtung by the Tarantula.

I am now gone through your three Letters, and am ſorry they are at an End; for, like a [247] Perſon uſed to ſpeak from Notes, I have nothing more to ſay, but — that

I am, my charming Girl, no leſs your's, than ever; and I cannot ſay more.

LETTER CCLXXVII.

WHEN I challenged you upon your talk⯑ing of Death, I did not mean, that you ſpoke of it in ſuch a ſplenetic Way, as betrayed a Fear of dying: I was rather apprehenſive, that you mentioned it in a Manner, which ſhewed no Sort of Concern about the Matter; and pardon me, my beſt and lateſt Hope, if this ſhould naturally alarm both my Fears and Jealouſy. You ſometimes unkindly take me to Pieces, and I am not Beauty enough to ſtand ſuch a Scrutiny. If you would fairly lump me all together, I flatter myſelf you would have Reaſon to be better ſatisfied with me. Thought, as you ſay, will not enlarge our Size; but a very little Reflection is capable of giving us higher Advantages, in a better Way, than the Stature of Typhon could boaſt.

I never ſpeak roughly to you, but out of my extreme Tenderneſs for you; and, when I ſaid it was in your Power to be a cleverer Perſon than you were, I muſt have been miſerably [248] miſunderſtood, to have this conſtrued into an Affront. As for the Philoſophy, you ſeem to reproach me with, I do not ſee how I can ever prove it's Virtue, with regard to you; for your Behaviour, I am certain, will never try it's Temper, and your Danger would be too ſtrong for it's Reſolution.

LETTER CCLXXVIII.

BELIEVE me, my ever-dear, my much-loved Harry, when I tell you that my talking of Death need not alarm your Jealouſy; for I ſolemnly declare, I find nothing dreadful in the Thoughts of his Approach, but the too tender Concern, I feel at parting with you. If this be a Crime, I confeſs my Guilt: But let it be a Conſolation to you, as well as me, that I am not conſcious of any other unrepented Sin; but find my Soul filled with a ſtedfaſt Hope, that, thro' the Merits of my Redeemer, I ſhall be happy. Now let the Reſignation, with which I bear the preſent Pains inflicted on me, and the Calmneſs, with which I expect thoſe that are to come, bear witneſs to my Love for thee; ſince that alone enables me to ſupport the preſent, and expect the future, without even wiſhing for that [249] certain Relief, which Death affords to human Miſery. Nay, I will go farther yet, and ſay, I wiſh to live, from the dear Hope that my Life is, and may be of Moment to thy Happineſs. But in this, and every Thing, let us endeavour at a perfect Reſignation to the Diſpenſations of the Almighty; and ſay, with Truth and Chear⯑fulneſs, his Will, not our's, be done!

Be aſſured, my charming tout en ſemble, you cannot be hurt, by what you call, ‘my taking you to Pieces.’ You are perfect enough to ſtand a much nicer Scrutiny, than I am capable of making. But indeed you miſapprehend me, when you ſuſpect me of intending any ſuch Matter. It is more than I can do, to defend myſelf; nor had I ever the leaſt Deſign of finding Fault with you.

You ſometimes accuſe me of Weakneſs, which I am actually guilty of, but cannot help. I am mortified at your ſeeming to expect I ſhould be perfect, when I ſet up for nothing more, than a mere, ſimple, mortal Woman: Of courſe, I endeavour to lay the Fault on Nature, rather than Will: And indeed I am convinced, that Conſtitution has a greater Share in our Virtues and Vices, than we are willing to allow; and that a ſtrong Frame of Body is a great Help to the Mind. We have had frequent Inſtances of Perſons, poſſeſſed of the greateſt Fortitude, becoming miſerably puſillanimous, when the [250] animal Spirits were oppreſſed by Pain, Age, or Sickneſs. The Duke of Marlborough, in the latter Part of his Life, uſed to cry, like a ſick Girl, if he loſt a Game at Picquet, and ſay, every one could beat him then:

Yet ſure it would have been the utmoſt Cruelty to have reproached him for this Weakneſs; or from thence to have thrown any Reflection on that noble ſpirit, he formerly poſſeſſed. In ſhort, my dear Harry, it is my Opinion, that Pro⯑vidence, to moderate the Pride of Man, has made the Faculties of the Mind depend more on the Formation of the Body, than we are aware of; at leaſt, I am willing to think ſo, as it naturally accounts for my Want of Reſolution and Strength of Mind, beſides an hundred and fifty other Failings, I am incident to.

Adieu, my firſt, my beſt, my only Wiſh and Hope! May you ever retain that Philoſophy, which I admire, not reproach you for; and may I never furniſh you with Trials, which may prove it's Virtue, or exhauſt it's Strength!

I am, and ever ſhall be, in Sickneſs or in Health, truly and affectionately your's.

LETTER CCLXXIX.

I THINK your noble Correſpondent makes a very paltry Figure in his laſt Letter. I own, I had a better Opinion of his Senſe and Spirit, than to ſuppoſe he could be alarmed at finding a Perſon, who poſſeſſed theſe Merits in an higher Degree, than himſelf; but I am now convinced, that the Superiority, you demonſtrated, is the Reaſon of his declining any farther Connection with you. It is not eaſy to fall, with a good Grace, from a Principal to a Second, in any Point, which we have much at Heart; nor can we bear the Perſon, whoſe ſuperior Excellence makes us appear in an inferior Light, even to ourſelves. Swift is the only Author, or Perſon, I ever met with, who honeſtly confeſſes this Foible:

When I plain'd my lonely Situation, did I ſeem to lament the Want of any Friend, or Companion, but thee? Indeed, I neither did, [252] nor do; for all other Company and Converſe are taſteleſs to me. I with I had Religion or Philoſophy ſufficient to ſupport your Abſence with a proper Firmneſs, I will not ſay, Unconcern. But to thoſe, who truly love, believe me, the beſt Authors appear but bad Comforters, under the Pains of Separation: To me they muſt be rather a Diſſervice, than Help; as they would but more ſtrongly remind me of thee, thou charming, practic Eſſence of them all! How⯑ever, if I live, I will fall into whatever Courſe of reading you think proper, as I ſhall always be pleaſed with adopting your Sentiments, or modelling mine by them, as far as my poor, little Capacity will admit. But let me beg you not to attempt curing me of the Pain, which your Abſence will ever give me; for, as nothing but Indifference can render me eaſy in that Particular, be aſſured it is out of your Power to make me ſo.

Notwithſtanding your Situation, which I know requires your Preſence, I very ſeriouſly and ſin⯑cerely wiſh you here, at this and every Moment. There is no ſaying how far the Weakneſs of my Body affects my Mind: Perhaps my being diſqualified for every other Pleaſure and Satis⯑faction, makes me feel your Loſs more ſtrongly. Be that as it will, I cannot help thinking it a little melancholy to be left in the forlorn, unſettled Way, I am, in my preſent Condition. [253] How is the Time fixed for your Coming, when my falling ill is ſo uncertain? And ſure you need not grudge me the Happineſs of ſeeing you a little ſooner than, perhaps, my lateſt Moment. However, if it is inconvenient, I relinquiſh your Promiſe; for I ſhall always prefer your Intereſt to my Satisfaction; nor can I receive any Joy from the Thoughts of your coming with Re⯑luctance to me.

LETTER CCLXXX.

YOUR Obſervation upon — is extremely juſt, and expreſſed in a very pretty Turn and Manner; and, tho' I did not flatter myſelf in the Way you have taken it, yet that may rather be his Reaſon, than none at all; for, as to the Objection he makes, with regard to the Expence, I think my Letters ſufficiently proved that the Expence of my Scheme would be conſiderably leſs than his own Plan.

Your Remark upon — puts me in mind of a Paſſage of Sir Francis Bacon's Treatiſe upon the Wiſdom of the Antients; where he labours to give a new Moral to the old Fables of Antiquity. Juno is ſaid to be woo'd by Jupiter, [254] in the Form of a Cuckow; upon which he makes the following Comment: ‘That Men often impede their own Succeſs by Oſtentation of ſuperior Merit; and that eſpecially with Perſons, who have more Arrogance and Pride, intimated by the Character of Juno, than Senſe or Merit. The ſureſt Way to win their Favour is, to appear as mean and humble, both in Virtue and outward Appearance, as poſſible.’

The whole Treatiſe, which I am now quoting from, is, in my Opinion, a very poor Performance, and much below ſo great a Man. The Morals drawn from the Tales of the Pan⯑theon are wretchedly forced, and many of them improperly adapted. His Stile is ordinary, and Expreſſions paltry.

My deareſt Life, you cannot ſurely think, that I would not rather be with you, even in Town, than from you, even here: Why then do you ſeem to upbraid me? Oh! never, never do ſo again. Be aſſured this once for all, and then never let a Doubt or Surmiſe diſturb your Breaſt, that I never ſtay a Day from you, but when it is neceſſary I ſhould, both for your preſent Security and future Happineſs. You can ſurely calculate pretty near the Time, you would moſt particularly deſire my Attendance; and it will certainly be Time enough for me to go up then. If I ſhould go at preſent, perhaps I ſhould [255] be, for many Reaſons, under a Neceſſity of leaving you, at that Time, I ſhould moſt wiſh to be with you. Thus your own Impatience would diſappoint your End. I ſhewed the ſame Impatience in deſiring you to come down; but I have been uneaſy, ever ſince, about it, as I am apprehenſive the Attempt would be extremely hazardous, and the Journey too fatiguing; and an unlucky Contretemps might happen in the Country, before you could be able to return again. I hope this Letter will reach you Time enough to prevent you; or, rather, I hope your Prudence has corrected my Indiſcretion already. There are many Reaſons, too, againſt your coming at preſent; which, however material in themſelves, are Conſiderations too inſignificant to mention, after the Objection, I have made, of your Danger.

I am, indeed I am, tout a vous Seul.

LETTER CCLXXXI.

AS to the Converſation with —, I ſhould be much obliged, if you would let me know who was the ſecond Perſon; which, upon my Honour, I ſhall never mention either to him or the other; and this you may be aſſured of, [256] both upon your Account and mine. It may be of Uſe to me to know his Confident upon this Occaſion, but only ſo, if I keep my Mind to myſelf.

Such Expreſſions, as he made Uſe of, though the ſame that you quoted, may very well bear a different Senſe from what Miſtake, Prejudice againſt him, or in favour of me, might poſſibly apprehend them in; or, even ſuppoſing them capable of no other Meaning, but the unkind one reported to you, yet the Ill-nature of the Tongue does not always proceed from the Ma⯑lice of the Heart; and the unmeaning Purpoſes of a light Reverie, or the vague Folly of an idle Dream, may ſometimes be miſtaken for a deliberate and determined Scheme of Action. I have not, thank Providence, in my own Heart, Malice to any Man: I have therefore no Jealouſy of any Man's evil Deſigns towards me. The few, I love, I love entirely, both with Friend⯑ſhip and Eſteem: Thoſe, whom I merely love not, (for I hate no one) have my general Bene⯑volence and Charity. This happy Caſt of Mind has enabled me to live hitherto very eaſily and comfortably, both in the World, and my own Cloſet; and has turned the Edge of many Mortifications and Diſappointments, I have met with, in my Communication with Mankind; which, though frequent, I may be ſuppoſed to be not well qualified to bear with; as, from the [257] general favourable Opinion I have of human Nature, in Honour to it's Creator, the Con⯑viction of Yeſterday prepares me not for the Diſappointment of To-morrow. My Affections vary, but my Friendſhips never; for the firſt depend upon others, but the latter upon myſelf; or, rather, this reſts upon an higher Principle than the ſlight Baſis of human Connections. This Principle is not my own; it was graciouſly lent me by Providence, who would have un⯑kindly given me Life without it. I will ſpend it here with pious Uſe, and pay it back with grateful Tribute! And the Lord incline our Hearts to keep this Law!

LETTER CCLXXXII.

NEED I tell my deareſt Life, with what unfeigned Pleaſure I ſhould accept his Invitation, were it in my Power to undertake ſuch a Journey, without the immediate Hazard of my own Life, and one far dearer to me? Surely my dear Harry has forgot my being forbid to go even three Miles, at a Time, in an Hackney-Coach: The leaſt Exerciſe fills me with ſuch violent Pains, as almoſt diſtract me. I have not been able to turn myſelf in Bed, without the utmoſt Difficulty, theſe ten Days; and have been obliged to take Opiates, to make [258] me ſleep, for ſeveral Nights paſt. The Want of my Reſt has reduced me to the loweſt Degree of Weakneſs imaginable: Beſides, thoſe, who know more of the Matter than I, think I ſhall not hold up above three Weeks, at fartheſt. But why do I go on aſſigning Reaſons for declining what would afford me the higheſt Tranſport, when my not accepting it too fully proves my Want of Power, not Will? I can⯑not help thinking I have ſuffered infinitely more, than the generality of People in my Condition: Be that as it will, I know my Strength and Spirits are quite exhauſted; and I am more than half perſuaded, that we ſhall never meet again on Earth — in Heaven, I am ſure, we ſhall; for in thy Sight alone I can be bleſt! — Something too much of this —

There is an extreme pretty Poem come out, called Elfrida. If you will allow yourſelf an Hour's Leiſure to read it, I will ſend it to you. I have received much melancholy Pleaſure from it.

Your Picture is come home, and is almoſt my only Companion: I talk to it frequently; but, alas! it does not anſwer. I find myſelf diſappointed, and turn from it to your Letters: They, indeed, afford me a more ſenſible Satis⯑faction; they tell me of your Health, your Love and Conſtancy. Thus do I divide my Time, as it were, between the Shade and Subſtance. [259] I begin to regret my not having had my Picture ſome Months ago; for, though I do not wiſh you ſhould lament me, if I die, I do not wiſh you ſhould entirely forget me; and that would juſt furniſh a bare Remembrance, un⯑attended with Pain or Pleaſure.

I am, my deareſt Harry, very faithfully and affectionately your's.

LETTER CCLXXXIII.

AS I was ſitting down to write about three Hours ago, I was taken ſo ill, I feared I ſhould not be able to hold the Pen this Day. I have got a little Eaſe, and ſhall employ the happy Interval in acknowledging your Letters. I have already declared my Incapacity of accept⯑ing the Pleaſure, you deſigned me. I am glad to find your mature Conſideration approves my pleaded Reaſon. I ſhall ſay no more on the Subject, but that I am in a very diſagreeable Way, oppreſſed with continual Pains, Weak⯑neſs, and low Spirits.

As to your coming to me, take my Word, I was never more in earneſt, than when I deſired you to conſult your own Intereſt, rather than [260] my Inclination; nor did I mean to upbraid your Want of Tenderneſs, when I ſuppoſed you might not come. I do not, indeed I do not, doubt your Love:

I have taken much Pains to render Life indifferent to me: I have accompliſhed it: I neither wiſh to live, or die. If I were thoroughly perſuaded I ſhould not recover, I would inſiſt on your not coming near me; for I am convinced there is a vaſt Difference in the Senſations, which ariſe from being preſent or abſent at the Death of any one we love: But, as I cannot be certain in this Point, I leave the Matter entirely to your Diſcretion; and be aſſured, I will not be offended, if you ſhould determine on ſtaying where you are. Adieu!

LETTER CCLXXXIV.

AS you have condeſcended to be my Pupil, I ſhall recommend the Courſe of Reading I ſhould chuſe for you; and, to lead the Way, have here ſent you one of my former Letters [261] to you, upon this Subject. I beg you will ſeriouſly conſider, how ſtrongly I have there recommended thoſe Tracts referred to, with other Writings of this Kind; and that you will carefully and leiſurely read them regularly thro', with that ſober Senſe and rational Reflection, which is neceſſary to give you the full Benefit of ſuch a Study. For, as Young ſays,

To ſettle the Courſe of Study is but half the Work; the Method of reading is what com⯑pletes the Scheme. He, who reads moſt, ſtudies leaſt: For it is with the Mind, as with the Stomach; where not the Food it ſwallows, but the Digeſtion it performs, turns that to Nou⯑riſhment, which would otherwiſe be a Poiſon. Therefore I would recommend it to you never to take a Book in one Hand, without a Pen in the other: And I expect your ſeſinble Remarks and philoſophical Reflections, of which indeed you are very capable, upon every one of the Papers, I have quoted for you, in the incloſed Letter; and, by the Time you have gone regularly thro' them, I hope to point out ſome⯑thing farther for you, in our mutually deſired Converſation together.

You talk in a ſplenetic Way, in your Letter, of dying, &c. Now I will not ſcold you again, [262] for the hundredth Time; becauſe I am very ſure, if you could avoid it, you would, when you know how often it has diſobliged and diſ⯑pleaſed me. I am indeed ſincerely concerned at your ill State of Health, at preſent; and as much ſo, that you will not exert that Strength of Mind, which you may find yourſelf Miſtreſs of, if you will but take a little Pains to try. Indeed, my dear Fanny, you are capable of being a cleverer Creature, than you ſometimes appear to be; and I own it vexes me, when I ſee you, at any Time, fall below your own Senſe and Virtue, which I am always rouzing you to, as there needs nothing more to make you perfect.

I am ſorry, but not angry: I am remonſtrating, not ſcolding.

Adieu, my ſpoiled Pet!

LETTER CCLXXXV.

I AM ſincerely concerned at the bad State of Health, you are in, at preſent: But have a good Heart, my own dear Pet, for you will be much better of the next; ſo let not this diſcourage you.

I am extremely well pleaſed to find you are at your Aunt's now; but am afraid of the [263] Diſturbance, you apprehended from the Trade carried on in the Back-Yard. I beg to know immediately, how you like your Situation, in every Particular; and every Inſtance of Kind⯑neſs or Good-nature, you meet with from any of your Friends, who are therefore more mine, ſhall be ever acknowledged by me with more than Thanks. If I have a Thought, but what tends to my dear Fanny's Happineſs, to her proper and honourable Eſtabliſhment in Life, may I be as much diſappointed in the faithleſs Wiſh, as I am certain I ſhould be in the worth⯑leſs Experiment!

Adieu, my dear, charming Fugitive! Oh, when may my Doors, as well as my Arms, be open to receive thee, thou moſt welcome and much-deſired Gueſt?

Farewell, 'till then, thy impatient Exile!

LETTER CCLXXXVI.

I AM ſincerely pleaſed at finding my dear Harry in ſuch a chearful Mood; tho' what you jeſt with, like the Fable of the Boys and Frogs, has been almoſt Death to me; nor am I able to enjoy the little Relaxation from Pain, which I am, at preſent, bleſſed with, from the dreadful Certainty of what I have yet to undergo.

[264]It was, indeed, very lucky for me, that I got to my Aunt's: She has behaved with great Care and Tenderneſs, the Want of which muſt have added greatly to my Sufferings, if not imme⯑diately endangered mine, and the poor Bab's Life. As to the Noiſe, I muſt compound for it, and endeavour to bear with one Inconvenience, where there are ſo many Conveniencies.

I cannot help telling you, that I think our Friends in — have behaved very ill to you. I had no Claim to their Friendſhip or Regard; but I think they ſhould have rejoiced in any Opportunity of ſhewing their Gratitude and Affection to ſo near a Relation, and kind a Benefactor. The Particulars of their Conduct I refer to our Meeting, which I hope and believe will be ſoon. Obſerve, that I have never ſeemed to take the leaſt Notice of their Behaviour, nor ſhewn any kind of Picque or Reſentment at it. By this you may perceive, your Example has not been thrown away. I ſtrive to copy it, though convinced I ſhall never, in any Thing, arrive at the ſame Degree of Perfection; and, I aſſure you, I ſcarce engage in the moſt trifling Action, without aſking myſelf, would my Harry, if preſent, approve my doing ſo? or, how would he act in the ſame Circumſtances? So really anxious am I to become thy Epitome.

I hope I ſhall keep up a little longer, to gather Strength and Spirits for the approaching [265] Aera; and that Bab and I may live to thank you for the kind Aſſurances of your preſent and future Regard. Adieu!

LETTER CCLXXXVII.

I HAVE this Day begun my great Buildings, &c. The Boldneſs of my Undertakings, with the amazing Succeſs of my Atchievements, ſurprizes even myſelf; but is a Matter of miraculous Wonder to the reſt of the World. Yet it is impoſſible to conceive, without having tried, how much may be compaſſed by the Help of a little Thought, Spirit, and Perſeverance; referring the Succeſs ultimately to Providence, which has hitherto, in a good Hour be it ſpoken, favourably attended every one of my bold and deſperate Undertakings. So proſper me ſtill, as I mean Honour to you, my trueſt Love, and to your Children! for whom I begin already to feel a Father's Fondneſs, ſay rather a Grandfather's; for I have always behaved to you, as to a favourite Child; cheriſhing you for your own Advantage, and thwarting you only for your Good.

[266]The Compliment, you make, of ſetting me for your Example, is higher than my Merits: You need no better Pattern than the fair Ex⯑emplar in your own Mind, whenever you are pleaſed to reflect your own Thoughts upon it; and for this Purpoſe, if you conſider me as your Monitor only, it will be the higheſt Favour, I ſhall pretend to.

Adieu, my ſweet Pupil!

LETTER CCLXXXVIII.

I DID not receive your's of the 9th, 'till a few Hours ago. This Delay, joined to your late Silence, threw me into a Situation very little ſhort of Diſtraction. I have not ſlept two Hours at a Time ſince Thurſday, and have almoſt blinded myſelf with crying. As you have been always ſo exactly punctual in writing, I muſt ſay it was unkind to miſs a Poſt at this particular Time. My Spirits, weakened and worn out by bodily Pain, ſunk under the moſt diſmal Apprehenſions. I imagined you had met with ſome dreadful Accident; or, at beſt, concluded that your Uncle had intercepted my Letters. Heaven be praiſed, my Fears were groundleſs! But let me intreat you, my dear Harry, to write conſtantly for the future, though your Leiſure ſhould afford but a ſingle Line. I know you [267] think it extremely ſilly to be uneaſy on ſuch Occaſions; but indeed I cannot help it, and muſt therefore beg your Indulgence to this particular Weakneſs.

As I am ſure all your Undertakings are founded on Reaſon and Virtue, it would be arraigning Providence to doubt their Succeſs. May he ever bleſs, proſper, and preſerve my Love! and then, tho' he afflict me, I ſhall not complain.

I am not offended at your making ſo light of my preſent Sufferings: ‘Thou canſt not ſpeak of what thou doſt not feel.’ But I am affronted, you take no Notice of my favourite Elfrida: If you do not like it, let me beg you not to tell me ſo; for I am vain enough to fancy there is a ſtrong Parity between her Sentiments and mine.

LETTER CCLXXXIX.

INCLOSE you this Paper, becauſe it relates to the Subject of one of my late Letters, about Reading. I ſend it to you more for your Amuſement, than Inſtruction; as you need no Hint of this Kind: Nor, indeed, do I think [268] Reading itſelf any otherwiſe neceſſary to my charming Philoſopher, than to direct or adapt your Thoughts to proper Studies; for an Ant, or a Straw, which gave you Occaſion to exerciſe your own Reflections, would anſwer the End as well. Give but fair Play to the ingenuous Nature inhabiting thy Breaſt, my proudeſt Manſion, and all human Learning were ſuperfluous to thee. Happy for Mankind, if Arts and Sciences were merely ſo! As all States thrive beſt upon their proper Forces, ſo theſe, like Auxiliaries, tho' called in as Friends, often remain as Tyrants.

I am well. Amen to you!

Fielding, in the ſecond Page of this Paper, has rendered the decens of Horace too literally. In the Original, it comprehends all the higher Morals; but, in the Tranſlation, it means no more than what the French ſtile Les petites Morales.

LETTER CCXC.

THOUGH you caution me about ſpeaking my Opinion freely about Elfrida, I muſt not be confined or reſtrained by any Thing, but my own Judgment, as far as that will go.

The Author's prefatory Letters ſhew him to be a better Critic, than his Work ſhews him [269] to be a Poet. There are ſome pretty Turns, which any one, who imitates, may write: But the Soul of Poetry is wanting; which I am certain of, from my not feeling, through the whole; and a Work muſt be very ſlight and inſipid, which amuſes only the Fancy, without affecting the Heart. I will not allow any Thing to make us wiſer, which does not make us better; and the cold inanimate Contemplation of moral Beauty is not ſufficient for this. He, who ſaid, Virtue need but be ſeen, to be adored, expreſſed himſelf but faintly; I ſay, ſhe muſt be felt.

But to return — Orgar is a vile, unnatural Brute, who would proſtitute his Daughter to the Honour of being a King's Miſtreſs. Athelwold is but a poor Character thro' the whole; and, as to Elfrida, I will not compliment her ſo much, to ſay there is any Parity between your Sentiments and her's. She ſeems, in her firſt Speech, to be picqued, in Pride, that ſhe is not more publickly manifeſted to the World; talks high of Orgar's Daughter, Courts, &c. I think her rather like Semele, than you; and that im⯑patient Temper of her's, jealous of his Love in Abſence, and, not without Murmur, ſubmitting to the Prudence of concealing their Marriage, perhaps drew upon her that Judgment of Providence, which deſtroyed her Huſband, and rendered her miſerable. I think the Stile very [270] indifferent, and, in ſome Places, mean and abſurd. One or two of the Heroes, I think, ſays 'Sdeath, which is not a Word in the Engliſh Dictionary.

Adieu, my dear Pet! May you never have Elfrida's Fate! though I would rather you had that than Semele's.

I met Yeſterday with Bolingbroke's Letters upon the Method and Uſe of reading Hiſtory, &c. I have gone through but the two firſt Letters. I like them extremely, but dare not ſay they are ſenſible and clever; becauſe I have ſeveral times ſpoke and wrote to you upon this Subject, and have often inculcated that we miſ⯑apply our Study-Leiſure extremely, who read for mere Amuſement, or even Theory Contem⯑plation. Such Perſons may be ſaid to ſtudy, as the College Lad expreſſed himſelf, by an happy Blunder, ‘I read ſix Hours a Day, and no one is the wiſer.’

I think ſuch a Man may as well be aſleep; for he can only be ſaid to have pleaſant Dreams, who reads any Thing, but with a View of im⯑proving his Morals, or regulating his Conduct. I mean Men, who are happy enough to be under no Neceſſity of reading, but for themſelves; for Arts and Sciences muſt be ſtudied by ſome People for the uſeful Purpoſes of Life. Adieu!

LETTER CCXCI.

I DO not remember what I ſaid in the Letter, which incloſed you Fielding's Eſſay; but am certain, from the Tenor of my Opinion of you, that I did not mean to reprimand you for the Miſapplication of your Time, in reading Books of Amuſement only. When I ſpeak of Senſe, Honour, or Virtue, you ought to underſtand it as a Compliment, a juſt one, to you; not meant to upbraid you for the Want of theſe Excellencies. Why am I eternally miſtaken?

You ſay, that the preſent Uneaſineſs of your Mind calls for Amuſement. I ſhould think, that Amuſements were fitter for a Mind at Eaſe. Irkſome Thoughts are not to be relieved by Trifles; and it requires high Studies, and deep Reflections, to divert us from preſent Ills, or melancholy Proſpects. But let Amuſement be the Word! Will not Shakeſpeare's Plays amuſe you better than Durfey's, and would you not find better Entertainment in the Spectator than the Rambler? No Boarding-School Girl reads more for Amuſement, than I do. I would have you do ſo too: For I know very well, that Senſe, Philoſophy, and Virtue will make any Reading an higher Entertainment to you; and [272] that you are capable of receiving Pleaſure or Amuſement from many Writings, which are capable of inſtructing half the World. This was what I meant to hint to you, by any of my Letters on this Subject; that the utile was not inconſiſtent with the dulce; as I was too anxious for even your Amuſements, to leave them to Chance or Careleſſneſs for the Hap. I recommended ſome Papers to you lately, which, I flattered myſelf, would have highly amuſed you; as I am ſure the Comments, I expected from you, upon them, would have greatly entertained me. But I will not preſume to ſet you Taſks — Your own good Senſe be your Guide!

I am ſincerely concerned to find you ſtill in that plaintive Mood of ‘Misfortunes, Anxiety of Mind, &c.’ I hope, and believe, that you are not in any Circumſtance of Life, which can provoke ſuch melancholy Reflections. In ſhort, I have obſerved, that there is a great deal of Senſe and Virtue, with ſome Smattering of Philoſophy, in the World; but that great, noble, and comprehenſive Quality, called For⯑titude, ſeems to have quite forſaken Mankind; and Scarron might well ſay, if, in Truth, he could even ſay ſo much,

[273]May Heaven, moſt earneſtly ſolicited by my Prayers, defend my deareſt, amiable Love from both! and from every Evil, natural and moral, except the Penalties, which ſhe deſerves herſelf! and then ſurely her Happineſs here will be an Earneſt of that Bliſs, which perfect Spirits enjoy hereafter. Amen to that ſweet Prayer!

Sir Francis Bacon has a fine Paſſage, which may be quoted here, as a noble Definition of that Conſtancy, and Fortitude of Mind, which I am lamenting; ‘prepared for every Event, armed in all Fortunes, foreſeeing without Fear, enjoying without Satiety, and ſuffering without Impatience.’ This great Character is in the Power of ſo ſmall a Portion of Senſe and Virtue to attain to, that, for my Part, I am reſolved to commence Hero from the Date of this Letter. Adieu!

LETTER CCXCII.

TUESDAY's Poſt did not bring me any Letter from you. In your preſent Situation, you may judge how uneaſy I muſt be, upon ſuch an Occaſion. Accordingly I ſat down to ſcold, or complain, which are ſynonymous Terms.— [274] But ſtay, ſays I: Before my Letter need go, another Poſt may come in; and many Accidents may have prevented her writing, or made the Letter miſcarry, without her Illneſs or Neglect. Thus, my Pet, do I always deal with you, and would ſooner ſuſpect Improbabilities, or even my own Senſes, than your Truth; and ſhould, in like Circumſtances, behave, with regard to you, like that noble Venetian, who, ſeeing a Looking-glaſs make ſome Reflections on his Wife, broke it with his Cane, crying out, "Thou lyeſt."

Farewell, my deareſt Life! I am not leſs your's than ever; and need no more to aſſure you, I am totally, and for ever, your's.

LETTER CCXCIII.

I HAD the provoking Pleaſure of receiving two Letters from my dear Harry, by Yeſterday's Poſt. Tho' they were of different Dates, the Poſt-Mark was the ſame on both; ſo that theſe teizing Delays muſt be owing to the Perſon, you ſend with your Letters.

We do indeed too often miſapprehend each other. I make no Doubt but the Fault lies chiefly on my Side; for I am conſcious I have too much Quickneſs in my Diſpoſition; which, [275] joined to the earneſt Deſire I have to render my⯑ſelf agreeable to you, puts me on endeavouring to juſtify or explain away my Faults, perhaps, with too much Warmth. It is long ſince I have agreed with my dear Preceptor, in owning that Trifles will not, even for the preſent Moment, amuſe a rational Mind. There is a Kind of Self-contempt inſeparable from the miſ-ſpending our Time, in Purſuit of any Thing, which does not tend to make us wiſer or better, and, of courſe, happier. But this Feeling is, I believe, only known to intelligent Minds; tho' I have heard People complain of throwing away their Time on a Book, that did not pleaſe them, who were utterly incapable of making any Reflection, or forming any Sentiment from Milton, Shake⯑ſpeare, or Addiſon.

It is, indeed, as my ſweet Love obſerves, not in the Power of Trifles to relieve or calm the Sorrows of the Mind, or divert the Thoughts from bodily Pain. It is only in the Power of Religion, Philoſophy, and Senſe, to aid us in ſurmounting preſent Ills, by teaching us to look forward to an happy Futurity.

As I had entered into a regular Courſe of reading the Spectators, I have not yet gone thro' the particular Set of Papers, you recommended. I think it is impoſſible you ſhould doubt my being really charmed with thoſe, I have met: But, alas! what Comment could you expect [276] from me, on Subjects, where the little Under⯑ſtanding, I am Miſtreſs of, may be compared to an Infant juſt weaned from Leading-Strings, afraid to make a Step without a Guide?

I never did ſet up for the leaſt Degree of Fortitude: My Senſations are much too lively for a Stoic: A decent Reſignation to the Will of the Supreme Being is the utmoſt I aſpire to. Nor do I look upon it, that my complaining to you can be deemed a Breach of Duty, in this Point: You are ſo much myſelf, and every Faculty of my Soul is ſo much devoted to you, that I can ſcarce call them mine. You have my Thoughts all wild and uncorrected: Tho' you may not approve them, you ſhould pardon, while you endeavour to reform them, as you do thoſe faulty ones, that riſe involuntarily in your own Heart. ‘For where's the Palace, where⯑into foul Things intrude not?’

My Heart's dear Harry muſt give me Leave to aſſure him, I am ſincerely grateful for that elegant and affecting Solicitude, he expreſſes for my Happineſs; of which he is, and I hope ever will be, the firſt and only Agent, in the Hand of Heaven. May it reward and bleſs him for the Kindneſs, and return thoſe Wiſhes, which he makes for me, to him an hundred-fold!

You do me but ſtrict Juſtice, when you believe that nothing, but extreme Illneſs, or ſome very extraordinary Accident, could prevent [277] my writing. Your not hearing from me, by Saturday's Poſt, was owing to the firſt. I was the whole Day in racking Pain, and could not reſt three Minutes in any Place; therefore, as I had no Letter from you to anſwer, I thought it cruel to make you uneaſy with my Pains.

Tho' I am tranſported at the Thoughts of ſeeing my deareſt Harry, I would, by no means, deſire you to come, unleſs you can do it with Convenience to yourſelf; for I would have you leave all your Cares behind, when your dear Preſence is to baniſh mine. But in this, and every Thing, I ſubmit myſelf to your Diſcretion and your Love.

Adieu, my deareſt Life! May it be as con⯑ſiſtent with your Buſineſs, as I am ſure it is with your Inclinations, ſoon to ſee your fond and faithful

LETTER CCXCIV.

I WRITE this from my new Farm, which I might ſtile the Paraclete; for there are "white Walls and ſilver Springs" enough to intitle it to that Appellation; though there are better Reaſons for it. So romantic a Place never [278] was, if Wildneſs, Solitarineſs, with the Print of Aſtraea's laſt Footſteps in the Situation, and Love and Conſtancy in the Proprietor, be the diſtinguiſhing Marks of that Character.

There is ſomething amuſes and pleaſes me extremely in this Chain of Thought; that Pro⯑vidence ſeems to have marked out this Spot of Earth for your's, by a Train of unforeſeen Accidents. I had taken the Land at a Time, when you and I were upon ſuch Terms, that it it was highly probable we ſhould never be again reconciled. You had good Reaſons to be highly picqued at my Behaviour; and your Prudence, your Pride, and Honour, was a juſt Bar to a Re-union. At that Time, perhaps, all Libertine as I was, with many Schemes in Imagination, and many Views in Proſpect, I might have had ſome Conſolation in the Loſs of a Woman, whom my Paſſion loved, and my Reaſon eſteemed, in the Thought of being, in ſome Sort, eaſed from that Reſtraint, which my Regard to your Worth, with my natural Sentiments of Generoſity and Honour, never yet (thank God!) extinguiſhed in me, muſt have laid me under—at ſuch a Time, I ſay, we met by Chance: When ſpeaking of this extra⯑ordinary, bold, and enterprizing Purchaſe of mine, engaging for ſix hundred Acres of Land at a deſperate Rent, at a hazardous Criſis, and in a dangerous Country, which required a large [279] Fund to improve, when I was above two thou⯑ſand Pounds in Debt, and had neither Money, Credit, nor Stock to apply; upon deſcribing the Situation of the Place, you deſired I would name it —; adding, that it was probably the only Compliment, you might ever deſire from me. Some time after this, you and I projected a Plan of Paraclete; which I have, this Day, by an accidental Turn of Thought, adapted to this Place. You may remember, laſt Winter, that, &c. &c. [...] and, when I was to look out for a Nurſe, and Accommodation for your ſweet ante-loved Babe, I was, from ſome prior Reaſons, directed to this particular Place, for both.

Let me indulge myſelf farther in the Con⯑templation of this Scheme of Providence, with regard to you and me. You choſe and approved of me, when you had before you, as Milton ſays, ‘The World to chuſe, and Providence your Guide.’ Senſe, Wit, and Reading were, from my earlieſt Years, the Objects of my implicit Adoration; and, whenever I changed my Paſſion, it was in Search of a fit Subject for my Admiration. I, at length, poſſeſſed, unknowing, theſe rare Qualities in you, and was in Danger, ‘like the baſe Indian, to throw a Pearl away, richer [280] than all my Tribe:’ But, as my Reaſon improved by your charming Converſe more than my own Reflection, I found, acknowledged, and incaſed the Gem, thou ‘one entire and perfect Chryſolite!’ and hope never to exchange thee, but for a better World than this, made more eminently ſo, by a nobler and higher Con⯑verſe there with thee, thou amiable Cherubim and Seraphim in one! in whom are ſo perfectly joined their two diſtinguiſhing Characteriſtics, Love and Knowledge! the pleaſing Hope of which Enjoyment above will be a ſtronger In⯑citement to my Virtue here below. In ſhort, I do not know two Perſons alive, who ſeem more adapted by Nature for each other. Excuſe this Vanity in me, when your Approbation has already made my Panegyric. My Calmneſs and Philoſophy is fit to temper the Misfortunes and Diſappointments of Life; and your Wit and Spirit proper to ſeaſon and enliven the Eaſe or Pleaſures of it; ‘Dull, taſteleſs all, if unenjoy'd by thee!’

Farewell, thou beſt Subject of my beſt Com⯑ments!

LETTER CCXCV.

I DRANK hard at —, and it is now too late to reach home: However, I might get as far as —, with Eaſe; but have ſtopped ſhort here, that I might be at Liberty to think of, and write to you, more agreeable to me than any Company or Converſe, I can meet with in this World, while my Back is turned to you.

I received a very pretty Letter from you laſt Poſt, a very generous and a kind one too. The fatal Neceſſity of my too long Abſence from you is ſufficiently irkſome in itſelf; and the ſenſible Light in which you apprehend it, and the ra⯑tional Manner you ſpeak of it in, ſaves me that additional Weight of Anxiety, which would be intolerable. You can always command Senſe and Reaſon enough, when you are Miſtreſs of yourſelf; and, in Obedience to them, let me be proud to own myſelf your Vaſſal too.

The Comments, I expect from you, upon thoſe Writings, and others of the ſame Claſs, which I have recommended to you, are beſt ſhewn in your Life, by Chearfulneſs and Con⯑tent; the firſt manifeſted in Philoſophy, and the latter in Reſignation. Whenever I ſit down to [282] read any Writings of this Kind, I firſt ſuppoſe myſelf, in order to try their Power, labour⯑ing under all the Ills of Sickneſs, Sorrow, Poverty, and Oppreſſion: When, in a ſhort Time, all theſe gloomy Cares are diſpelled, like Miſts before the enlivening Sun-beams; and I look back firſt, with Triumph, and Contempt upon thoſe fleeting Shadows, which are now poſting ſo far behind me; and then look forward, with Gratitude and Joy, to that glorious Proſpect wide-opening before me. In ſhort, there is but one Misfortune in Life, which I think could prove too hard for ſuch Reflections as theſe to ſupport me through; I mean the Loſs of thee, of thee, my only Gain: And I am very certain, that nothing could prevent me from following you precipitately, but the Fear, by that raſh Action, of loſing you for ever.

Among the Papers, which I deſign to collect in my Solamen miſeris, I would inſert the Hymn to Contentment, and Night-piece on Death, of Parnell's. I happened to read them both this Morning, at Kitty's; and, if it would not appear too much Vanity, I would add ſome of my Letters to you, where I ſpeak of the Providence and Mercy of God, and the Immortality of the Soul; which, as they are my own Reflections, might have a better Effect on myſelf, at leaſt, than better Writings on the ſame Subjects. A Collection of Eſſays, intitled Spectacle de la [283] Nature, occurs to me here, as they give you a general and comprehenſive View of natural Philoſophy; which is ſuch a Manifeſtation of a God infinitely wiſe, powerful, and good, as — away all impious Thoughts! — almoſt renders particular Revelation ſuperfluous; at leaſt, to contemplative Minds. There are alſo many Paſſages in theſe Writings, eſpecially two Let⯑ters from the Prior to the Chevalier, which are maſterly in their Kind, that are admirable to abate the Self-ſufficiency of Man's Pride, and to humble all human Preſumption to a religious and implicit Obedience and Submiſſion to the infinitely great Diſpenſations of Providence; before whoſe Throne let us both kneel, with a pious and virtuous Devotion, not with an enthuſiaſtic or fanatic Zeal; and from whoſe Grace may we both receive ſuch Reward, as ſhall merit our juſt and honeſt Inclinations and Actions toward each other! So, concluding with Othello, Amen, I ſay, to that ſweet Prayer!

P. S. — is in this Houſe, offered me his Company, and ſtranges much, as the Waiter phraſes it, why I ſhould chuſe to be alone. I am not alone — ‘Have I not ſeen her, where ſhe has not been?’

LETTER CCXCVI.

YOU cannot imagine with what Anxiety I wait for every Poſt, at preſent, to hear a favourable Account of your ſafe Delivery. I own my Concern is double, at this Time, but double for you alone; and, had I the Univerſe to leave an Inheritance, I would rather make Hoſpitals my Heirs, than have you forfeit your Life, or Health, to give me one. ‘In Sorrow ſhalt thou bring forth,’ was the original Curſe. What Labour would it have ſaved your whole Sex, if my charming Girl had been our firſt Mother!

The Delays in the Poſts, which you complain of, are owing to this: That, for ſome Time paſt, they have gone later out than uſual; ſo that I had Time to write my Letters in the Morning, and ſend ſoon enough: But now, I find, they have recovered their former Dili⯑gence, which I was not aware of 'till Yeſterday Morning. I will take Care, that you ſhall meet with no more Diſappointments.

I have met with a Book lately, which I never heard of before, and that pleaſes me extremely. It is ſtiled Microcoſmography, or the Characters of Mankind. It was wrote by Biſhop Earle, [285] who was ſome time Preceptor to Charles the Second. Moſt of the Characters are very well drawn; and the whole is wrote with a good deal of Wit, and ſhews a thorough Knowledge of the World, both the ſpeculative and buſy Parts of it. There are ſome flat Endeavours at Point and Turn, with ſeveral Paſſages un⯑intelligible to a modern Reader: But, as the whole is worth Peruſal, I deſign it for your Library. I ſhall ſend it up along with the Hams, &c. which I deſign for Bab's firſt Car⯑nival; and, if it will give me Leave to do the Honours of the Entertainment, I ſhall certainly be there, at your appointed Time.

Adieu, my Life! for, 'till we meet, I may be ſaid to have taken my Leave of it.

LETTER CCXCVII.

IN the firſt Place, how is my ſweet Love? and well, and how is Bab? and what Sort of a Bab is it? Has it a broad, good-humoured Countenance, like Dad; or a lively Eye, double Chin, and ſaucy Look, like Mam? Is it moſt a Wit, or a Philoſopher? Does it incline rather to Poetry, or Metaphyſics? Is it compounded of the two heavy Elements of Earth and Water, or the two light ones of Air and Fire? In ſhort, tell me every Thing about it; what it ſays, [286] and what it does, and whether it has ever yet diſcovered any Ear for Muſic; what Sounds affect it moſt, and whether it's Eyes ſparkle at the gay Colours, or it's Brows knit into Con⯑templation at the grave ones? I am in very chearful Spirits upon this happy Occaſion, and am exerting all my Wit to be a very great Fool about our ſweet Infant.

I thank God, with a grateful Heart, for your ſafe Delivery; and do unfeignedly think, that, among the many remarkable Favours, I have, at ſeveral Times, received from the Hands of Providence, or can ever yet receive, you were it's beſt and moſt valuable Gift; for you are not only to me a Bleſſing in yourſelf, but, like Health, give me a Reliſh for all the other Goods of Fortune, or Advantages of Life.

LETTER CCXCVIII.

I AM, at preſent, employed more agreeably than I can be otherwiſe in this Town, writing to you, and waiting the Arrival of the Poſt to hear from you.

[287]I am obliged to your Secretaries, but they muſt accept my Anſwers to you, for I am at you alone. Kitty gives a promiſing Account of our Iülus: And that he does not ſuck, ſurprizes me not; for our Child could not poſſibly do any Thing like another Child. If he was reared entirely by the Spoon, perhaps it would not be amiſs; that he might imbibe no Humours, but what he brought into the World with him; and that he may ſay, with Richard the Third, "I am myſelf alone." Our's is ſo perfect an Engliſhman, on both Sides, that he has refuſed the Iriſh Teat, becauſe it would not have the Brogue on it's Tongue. If he is to be ſtiled Pliny, let it be the Younger; for I would rather have him endowed with that Goodneſs and Benevolence of Heart, which was his Charac⯑teriſtic, than all the Learning and Philoſophy of the Uncle.

I have been ſhifting all I can ſettle my Affairs, ſo as to make my Journey to —, through —, convenient at this Time; but, whether I can do that or no, be aſſured I will ſee my ſweet Boy chriſtianized, though I go up in one Stage, to return in the next. You ſhall hear more from me next Poſt on this Head. I have ſent up a fine Ham and a Head by a Carrier, directed to my Brother.

I am ſo charmed at the proper, becoming Senſe and Reaſonableneſs of your not preſſing [288] me to go up before, nor calling upon me ſince, on the juſt Aſſurance that my own Inclinations would induce me to it as ſoon as poſſible, that I am therefore reſolved to go Coute qui Coute, tho' I had not determined on it before.

Adieu, my Heart's Delight, and my Mind's Comfort!

LETTER CCXCIX.

I WAITED in vain laſt Poſt in — for a Letter from one of your Secretaries. Now may Kitty's Days be ever Nights; and in thoſe Nights, when ſhe ſtretches forth her Arms for Joy, may ſhe be diſappointed, as I was, when the Poſt came in! Let her, like me, be ‘mad with the Idea, and graſp the Wind!’

I have not half done my Prayer, but have ſtopped ſhort, hoping this Poſt, which I have juſt ſent to, may make me ſome Amends for the Diſappointment of the laſt.

The Poſt is juſt come in, and has anſwered my Wiſh of a Letter from yourſelf: But I am extremely alarmed at the unfavourable Account you give of yourſelf and Bab; and this very unnatural Weather happens unlucky for you both.

[289]I anſwered you already about Bab's Name, which I ſhall leave entirely to you. I hope your next Letter will contain a better Account of yourſelf, and poor little ourſelf, than your former. I would not have the Chriſtening delayed on my Account; and I am ſure I need not give your Senſe and Prudence a Caution to have it as private as poſſible, that both the Expence, and Report of it, may be as ſmall as can be. The Eaſe and Happineſs of our three Lives depends upon a proper Diſcretion about theſe two Articles. Your Happineſs depends upon my Welfare; my Welfare upon your Conduct; and our little Self reſt upon both. Now, as you are the firſt moving Principle in this Chain of Cauſes and Effects, I am perfectly eaſy, tho' the Conſequences are ſo choice and eſtimable.

LETTER CCC.

I DECLARE myſelf a Convert to Fitzoſborne's Opinion, and ‘no longer doubt of the ſalutary Effects, which are ſaid to have been produced by Words.’ I am become a recent Inſtance of their Power; for my dear Harry's kind Letter has wrought a greater Change in [290] my Health and Spirits, than could have been effected in the Time by the whole Materia medica. In the Name of our dear little Bab, I return his Duty and Thanks for the Kindneſs you expreſs towards him. I hope he will live to make his being mine, his ſmalleſt Merit to your Tenderneſs. Though I receive a very exquiſite Pleaſure from ſeeing him, I cannot help grudging it to myſelf, (as I ſhould any other, unſhared by thee) and wiſhing he were placed within your View, though I ſhould, by that Means, be debarred of the only Joy, I am capable of taſting in your Abſence. Any Increaſe of my Fondneſs for your dear little Epitome muſt be ſuperfluous; and indeed I know nothing that could add to it, but ſeeing him become as much the Object of your Tenderneſs, as he is of mine. I flatter myſelf with thinking the happy Time will come, when it ſhall be doubt⯑ful, which of us loves him beſt.

As I am ſtill very weak, and have not made the leaſt Progreſs in recovering my Appetite, I ſhould be very glad to get into the Air for a little Time: But I wait your Orders to diſpoſe of myſelf in the Country, or wherever elſe you pleaſe. All Places are alike to me: I muſt live ſomewhere; and I think my having a Lodging out of Town, for a few Weeks, could make but a ſmall Difference in my Expences — But let this be, or not, as you think beſt.

[291]Adieu, thou dear Diſpenſer of my preſent Happineſs, and only wiſhed Addition to my Hopes of future Bliſs!

LETTER CCCI.

YOU know I was lately angry: And I am ſo aſhamed of it, that I have been re⯑collecting what my Reading, or own Reflections can ſuggeſt, firſt, to palliate the Offence for what is paſt; and to prevent, for the future, the ill Effects of a Vice and Weakneſs, which I think even I have Senſe and Virtue enough to guard myſelf from.

The beſt Hints, which I ſhall offer here, are taken from an Eſſay upon this very Subject of Anger, wrote by Lord Verulam.

To extinguiſh this Paſſion entirely, is but a Bravery of the Stoics: For, like all ill Habits, we muſt cure ourſelves by Degrees; as a ſkilful Rider manages an headſtrong Horſe, guides his Steps in the ſafeſt Courſe, and pulls and relaxes the Rein by Turns. The Reaſon that ſo few People reclaim themſelves from bad Affections, is owing more to Want of Judgment, than Virtue. We grow careleſs, upon finding the [292] Imperfections of human Nature not eaſily con⯑quered by the Perfection of Philoſophy; not being aware that Habit muſt be overcome by Habit; as Regimen cures chronical Diſtempers better than Medicines. Intermiſſions are as ne⯑ceſſary in Ethics, as in Phyſic. The Scriptures, which are better Guides in Morals, than the whole Body of Philoſophers, give ſome In⯑dulgence to human Frailty in this Particular: "Be ye angry, but ſin not." And in another Place, ‘Let not the Sun go down upon your Wrath;’ which ſeems to declare, that the Continuance of Anger, not the firſt Start of it, makes the Vice. Bacon ſays, the beſt Way to cure the natural Inclination or Habit of Reſent⯑ment, is to reflect upon the Effects of Anger, "how it troubles a Man's Life;" and the beſt Time to do this is to look back upon Anger, when the Fit is over. Seneca ſays well, that ‘Anger is like a Ruin, which breaks itſelf upon that it falls.’ Socrates being aſked what a Man was doing, who was ſeen in the Street chafing himſelf in a Rage, anſwered juſtly, ‘he is puniſhing an angry Man.’ The Scripture exhorts us to poſſeſs our Souls in Patience; then whoever is out of Patience, is out of Poſſeſſion of his Soul. A paſſionate Man may be com⯑pared to a Bee, according to Virgil's Expreſſion, that, when they ſting, they loſe their Spirit in the Wound. Perhaps this may leave an Open [293] to Sarcaſm, to compare a calm Man to a Drone. Bacon ſays, it ought to make Men aſhamed of Anger, the Conſideration of thoſe Perſons, who are moſt ſubject to it; Children, Women, old People, and ſick Folks. Men ſhould carry their Reſentment rather with Scorn, than Paſſion; eſpecially where our Pride is picqued; for that ſame Pride ſhould rather ſhew us above, than below an Injury or Affront. Many other Ar⯑guments, drawn from Prudence, Morality, and Religion, occur to me at preſent; but, I am ſure, there are none of them neceſſary to inform your Senſe and Underſtanding; and all I mean by this Eſſay, is to furniſh you with a few Hints to be offered to my own Conſideration, whenever you find me relapſing into that Weak⯑neſs, which you may remember in a former Letter, ſome Time ago, I mentioned as the only Thing, which, now and then, gets the better of the Tenor of my Philoſophy.

Adieu, my faireſt Guide! I aſſure you, that I fly to your Arms with all the Impatience of an angry Man, and with all that Good-nature and Affection, which paſſionate Perſons are re⯑markable for.

LETTER CCCII.

I ARRIVED here laſt Night, much fatigued by the Warmth of the Weather. I hope my Pet is well, and my Pet's Pet. My Bleſſing to the little Fellow.

I perceived my Heart growing warm at the Approach to a Place, where I had, twenty Years ago, ſpent ſo many chearful, boyiſh Days. Somewhat like the Emotion we feel upon meet⯑ing an old School-fellow; whether it be one we have a particular Attachment to, or no; for I am not ſpeaking here of a rational Affection, but ſuch a Prejudice and Partiality, as is con⯑tracted from early Habit and Cuſtom, before we have the free Exerciſe of our Underſtandings. The Love of our Country may be ranked under this Head; by which, I do not mean that Patriotiſm, which is but univerſal Benevolence, poorly bounded by a Province or Kingdom; but that ſuperſtitious Attachment, Men have even to the very Soil, they were born in. I fancy that departed Spirits, even in Bliſs, look ſome⯑times back upon this World with a Regard like this, though without any Deſire of exchanging Situations. I ſpeak this upon a Preſumption that we carry our Conſciouſneſs with us to the [295] next World, which I look upon to be a Thing ſo far from requiring Proof, that to aſſert the contrary is arguing God to be partial or unjuſt. Should you be rendered a bleſſed Spirit for your Virtues, or I an unhappy one for my Vices, you might indeed be ſaid to be happy, and I miſerable; but neither of us could be ſaid to be rewarded or puniſhed, without a Conſciouſneſs of our being the Perſons, who, in the other Life, had merited or incurred theſe Judgments. It is Conſciouſneſs, which makes the Identity of a Perſon relative to himſelf; and, if Death deſtroys this, it in Effect creates another Spirit in our ſtead; and to reward or puniſh ſuch a one for our Actions here, would be Partiality or Injuſtice. I ſhould be aſhamed to inſiſt upon an Argument, which, by appearing ſo obvious to me, makes me conclude has been often urged before; but, as I really never met with any Thing on this Head, at leaſt, deducted from this Reaſoning, and that it is a Subject you know I am fond of, I ſhould carry it a good deal farther, if I were writing to any one elſe; but your Apprehenſion ſaves me that Trouble, as it has often done before. Adieu!

LETTER CCCIII.

I DID not receive my dear Harry's firſt Letter 'till Saturday Evening. I was then at the Rock, and had no poſſible Means of ſending an Anſwer to the Poſt-office; therefore was obliged, for the firſt Time, to diſobey your Commands.

In anſwer to your Inquiry after mine and my Pet's Health, I muſt tell you, you have been very near loſing both, ſince you left us. I attribute my Illneſs to the irregular Way we lived in, the four laſt Days you were in Town. I was ſeized on Monday Night with all the Symptoms of a violent Fever: I raved inceſſantly, and did not recover my Senſes 'till Tueſday. Polly ſent an Expreſs to Town, but no one came near us 'till Wedneſday. I went thro' all the neceſſary Operations, and am now, thank God, very well. I came to Town Yeſterday, and ſhall return no more. Poor little Bab has had two Convulſion Fits; the laſt was very near carrying him off. They did not let me know of his Illneſs, 'till I came to Town. He is vaſtly altered; but I hope, and believe, he will recover. You may judge (by your own) the Anxiety I feel for him.

I am vaſtly delighted with your Sentiments in regard to our future Conſciouſneſs, as they are, in my Mind, highly conformable to Reaſon and Religion: But I am ſtill more charmed with [297] them, as they corroborate my darling Hope, that we ſhall ſee, know, and converſe with each other in a future State. For certainly, if we retain a Conſciouſneſs of the Affections and Actions of this Life, we ſhall likewiſe retain the Idea of thoſe Perſons, who were the Cauſe of thoſe Actions, for which we are to be pu⯑niſhed or rewarded. The only Thing, I ever heard objected to this Opinion, is, that ſuch Remembrances might leſſen the Happineſs of thoſe bleſſed Spirits, who may, in this Life, be connected by natural or acquired Ties to Perſons, who are to make up the Number of the Unhappy, in the next. To this I anſwer, from my own Belief and Hope, that no Soul will be doomed to everlaſting Damnation: Or, if there ſhould be ſuch unhappy Beings, the Heinouſneſs of thoſe Crimes, which deſerve everlaſting Miſery, would entirely eraſe the Affection or Regard we bore them, unknowing of their Guilt; and make us readily acknow⯑ledge, when purged from groſs and ſelfiſh Paſſions, that their Doom is juſt. I cannot think, that, even in this Life, there ever did, or will ſubſiſt, a real Friendſhip, or ſincere Affection between the Good and Bad. Virtue alone is the ſure Baſis, that can make thoſe Unions firm and laſting. Without that only true Foundation, like Eſtcourt's Gueſts,

I have not wrote theſe Lines right, but 'tis no great Matter: I have only altered the Form, the Senſe remains.

I received two Letters from you Yeſterday. The Compliment, you pay to my Underſtand⯑ing, is more juſtly due to you, than me. If I am ſenſible, or intelligent, it is you have made me ſo. The fond Deſire of gaining your Approbation firſt rouzed me to exert the little Powers, which Nature lent me. Your Con⯑verſe, your Letters have improved my Mind, and given my Thoughts a Turn ſuperior to the Trifles, which employ the Generality of my Sex. Yet ſtill I plead no Merit from this Boaſt, for ſuch a Preceptor muſt have improved the dulleſt Pupil. It is you, my charming Guide, who have made me, as far as I am either, wiſe or good. You have illuſtrated your Theory by Practice, and, by your dear Example, ſhewn me what it is to be a Chriſtian and Philoſopher. Go on then, my loved Maſter; continue to inſtruct, and (I hope) improve me, 'till I arrive as near thy own Perfection, as my ſmall Powers admit. Yet ſtill remember I am a Woman, nay a weak one too; ſubject to all the Failings [299] of my Sex, which require Time, as well as Reaſon, to conquer.

I am now to thank you for your Concurrence to my Requeſt; which I do very ſincerely; but cannot help ſaying, tho' without Reſentment, that I had rather you had refuſed, than in⯑hanced the Merit of granting it, by ſuch unkind Suſpicions. I thought I had fully explained my Reaſons for deſiring, at the Time I mentioned it; tho' perhaps I thought it needleſs, as I did not, 'till now, believe my dear Harry could think me capable of any mean or ſelfiſh Views. Far from deſiring to enlarge the Number of thoſe, whom you ſtile Confidants, I ſincerely lament the Neceſſity, which obliged us to make any; and I ſolemnly aſſure you, I would much rather encounter any Conſequence, which might ariſe from the World's thinking ill of me, than purchaſe their good Opinion, by running the ſmalleſt Hazard of injuring you. Nor do I now, nor ever did mean to make any Uſe of it, on my own Account. My ſole Reaſon for deſiring it, was in regard to a third Perſon, whoſe future Credit, and Happineſs in Life, is, I believe, as dear to you, as me. However, if you diſtruſt my Prudence, or my Confidence in you, I am very ready to reſign this trifling Proof of your's in me; as I would not have you think it can either leſſen or increaſe the ſincere and unbounded Dependence, I ought to have on you.

[300]I long to know what Succeſs you have with the —. I am glad you did not explain your⯑ſelf to —. There are ſome People, who become Enemies from the Time they refuſe to be Friends.

Adieu, my deareſt Life! I am, and ever ſhall be, faithfully and affectionately your's.

LETTER CCCIV.

THIS is a very ſweet, romantic Situation; the Houſe old and bad. The Boy and Girl are really very fine Children, and capable of any Education, ſolid or polite. Lady — is a very ſenſible, chearful, and agreeable Woman; and ſuch a Perſon, as any Man might be both pleaſed and proud to have belong to him, in any Situation, or Relation of Life. Her Affability and unaffected Manners, not leſs than her Food, which is little more than Bread and Pulſe, Milk and Water, would befit a Cabin; while her Taſte, Spirit, and Politeneſs might become a Palace.

I feel a very ſingular Kind of Affection for her, which I never was ſenſible of before for a new Acquaintance; it is ſuch a Regard, as [301] we have for an old Friend. I think, I could ſpeak as freely to her, and intruſt her with any Secret of Conſequence to me, as I could to a Perſon, whoſe Confidence I had proved for twenty Years.

[...]

LETTER CCCV.

I HAD the Pleaſure of your's from Hermitage, and am highly delighted with your Account of Lady —, and her Babes. I have long been certain, that, whenever you knew, you would love and eſteem her; and this Belief was, I think, the higheſt Compliment, I ever paid her. Has ſhe not Abundance of that Clever⯑neſs, which is not to be defined; which, to the common Actions of Life, is like Grace to Beauty? And, as the latter does not ariſe from any particular Complexion, Limb, or Feature, but is the joint Reſult of all; ſo neither can the former be ſaid to depend on Senſe or Virtue, [302] tho' I am morally certain it cannot exiſt without both: For, as we have ſeen many handſome People, who wanted the charming Je ne ſçai quoi; ſo we muſt have met with many good and ſenſible Folks, who had not one Grain of Cleverneſs about them.

I am heartily concerned at the Account, you give of your Affairs. It is really a melancholy Thing, that you have no Perſon about you, whom you can depend upon; for thoſe, whoſe Integrity is paſt Diſpute, for Want of a little Cleverneſs, may injure you as highly, as others could by defrauding you. May I live to ſee the Day, when you ſhall have made me as capable, as I am willing and faithful, to become my dear Harry's only Steward!

Our dear little Baby is ſtill very far from well. Blackſtone ſay him Yeſterday: He has ordered him to live entirely on Chicken-Broth and Sack-Whey. I am ſorry to find his Conſtitution ſo extremely delicate. I grieve over again for every Grief, I felt and indulged, while he was immediately a Part of me; but I hope he will get the better of every Thing, and never have Reaſon to ſigh as much as he does now from Conſtitution.

I am to ſit, for the firſt Time, to Hudſon, on Saturday: He has been engaged every Day ſince I came to Town. I repent of my Folly already, but do not know how to get off: [303] Indeed I think it a very great one, to have my Picture drawn, eſpecially as you cannot take it with you — But it is too late to help it now, and I muſt go on with the Farce.

As your Affairs are in ſuch an irregular Way, I ſuppoſe you will not ſtay long at Hermitage. Let me know when you intend coming to Town. I wiſh I were to change my Lodgings every Time you leave me! for I can neither ſleep or wake, without having your Idea continually before me; nor can I ſit or walk in any Part of the Houſe, without recollecting that you ſat or walked there, at ſuch or ſuch a Time. As this local Memory is but a Kind of Interruption to the conſtant Remembrance I have always of you, independent of Time or Place, I am ſometimes tempted to take up my Abode in the Kitchen, where (to the beſt of my Knowledge) you never were, that I may be free to think of you, without Regard to particular Circumſtances, or material Objects.

I have, with great Care and Attention, read about half of Brown; but I muſt give him a ſecond Reading, before I pretend to give my Opinion, or communicate my Remarks.

Your Brother and Siſter are come to dine with me. I cannot ſay they interrupt me, as I have nothing farther to add, but that I am, and ever will be, your's.

LETTER CCCVI.

HERE am I at the Biſhop's Houſe quite alone, and ſhall be ſo 'till Monday next; when the Family return from —. I met ſome of the Servants of this Houſe about ſix Miles off, and they acquainted me with the State of Matters here; which would have been Hint enough for any reaſonable Man to turn back upon; but, you know, it was rather a Matter for me to rejoice at, that I ſhould have ſo much Time to myſelf, my Books, Paper, and Muſic. The Servants, who are left behind, are the higher Sort; and, as we are unfortunately old Acquaintance, they fall foul on me, from miſtaken Kindneſs, at an unmerciful Rate. The Butler was immediately for ſending to the Par⯑ſon of the Pariſh, ‘to notify the Arrival of a Relation and Friend of the Biſhop's, who was in ſuch a loneſome Way, that it would pity one's Heart to ſee it.’ But, upon In⯑quiry, I found this Man would not go away, when I bid him, nor take a Denial, if he aſked me to go home with him; and, not being at the Top of his Preferment in this Dioceſe, I begged to be excuſed from the Over-abounding of his Civility. My Friend, the Butler, then, [305] apprehending that I thought the Parſon too grave and wiſe for me, (for he could not get it into his Head, that a Man ſhould chuſe to be alone) recommended the Biſhop's Agent to me; who, he ſaid, would much delight me, as he was a brave, jolly Batchelor, like myſelf, and could crack a Bottle and a Joke with any Man. I aſked him, whether this Man would give me any of my Lord's Money, without his Leave? and, being anſwered▪ No, I ſaid I deſired no Acquaintance with him.

Lady — and I had a good deal of Con⯑verſation about you, the Day before I came away. She ſpoke very handſomely of you, and kindly too. She ſaid alſo, that you had but a ſlight Conſtitution, and was ſubject to low Spirits often; which ſhe attributed to Irregularity of Hours, late at Night and Morning, and recommended to me to take ſome Care about that Matter for you. She aſſured me, that ſhe was herſelf ſo ſenſible of the great Effect of riſing early, that, as ſhe has naturally ſuch a Flow of Spirits, which were firſt owing to early Hours, ſhe is now obliged to lie in Bed ſome Time longer than ſhe is inclined, leſt ſhe ſhould run wild about the Country, to the utter Scandal and Aſtoniſhment of all her Neighbours.

Adieu!

LETTER CCCVII.

I Congratulate my dear Harry on the unexpected Indulgence, which his Taſte for Retirement has met with. I am not at all ſurprized that you neither returned to Hermitage, nor accepted the Company that has been offered you at —; for I am well aware how pleaſant it muſt be to a Mind like your's, to be allowed the free Exerciſe of it's own Faculties. I have often looked with great Pity, not entirely unmixed with Contempt, on very good Kind of People, for ſeeming to be utter Strangers to the Pleaſures of Self-ſociety; for I will not call it Solitude to be ſometimes alone. However, I hope your contemplative Amuſements are, by this Time, heightened into the Joys of a rational Converſe, by the Biſhop's Return. I am ſure he is a ſenſible Man, from the Friendſhip that has ſo long ſubſiſted between you, and the Manner you always ſpeak of him in.

I am much obliged to dear Lady — for the Expreſſions, as well as Proofs of Regard, ſhe has honoured me with. There is really ſomething extraordinary in her Attachment, for indeed I cannot plead the leaſt Merit to her Friendſhip; yet I hope, and believe, I ſhall ever retain it; for I am well convinced, I muſt be highly to blame, whenever I forfeit it.

[307]I am very certain, that you and ſhe are quite right with regard to early Hours: But I would not diſgrace the Goodneſs of her Heart, as well as Underſtanding, to ſuppoſe her chearful Spirits ariſe merely from Conſtitution. Believe me, that, in order to ſupport them, ſhe has had Recourſe to Religion and Philoſophy; nor has her high Station exempted her from wanting their Aid. May both you and ſhe ever retain that ſenſible Chearfulneſs, which ſo well be⯑comes ye! which, tho' you modeſtly aſcribe to Regularity and early Hours, has it's Effect from another Cauſe, a Conſciouſneſs of acting right, and a Mind filled with ‘that ſweet Peace, which Goodneſs boſoms ever.’

I will not however pretend to deny, that, in ſuch Conſtitutions as mine, Irregularity may weaken the Faculties of the Mind, as well as the Body, and diffuſe a Laſſitude and Heavineſs over both; Providence having ordained, for their mutual Preſervation, that what injures the one, ſhall immediately or remotely affect the other. This Sentiment may be carried a great Way, even to the mental Vices of Envy, Avarice, &c. and every Perſon, who has ever felt Sickneſs or Pain, muſt know, ‘we are not ourſelves, when Nature, being oppreſſed, commands the Mind to ſuffer with the Body.’ Adieu!

LETTER CCCVIII.

ALL alone ſtill, in my own Kingdom; where, though I have no very extenſive Sway, I have thoſe Subjects to govern, that ſhould be the firſt Eſſay of a Monarch's Politics, namely, my own Paſſions and Foibles. I might have anſwered your Letter laſt Poſt, but declined it; as I had not Time to do it Juſtice, to ſpeak ſtill in the kingly Stile.

I am extremely pleaſed, when you anſwer my Letters properly, by entering into the Spirit and Subject of them, which indeed you can do ſo well; not with ‘I received your's, and for Anſwer ſay.’

A Correſpondence ſhould be properly a Con⯑verſation; not mere Queſtion and Anſwer. I often juſt hint at Subjects, and leave them imperfect, to give you Occaſion to complete them; and I am vexed and diſappointed, when you neglect it, out of Lazineſs or Diffidence; for it muſt be owing to either of theſe, when⯑ever I am diſappointed. You have ſometimes told me, that I over-awe you, from an Appre⯑henſion of my ſuperior Underſtanding; ſo that, in writing or ſpeaking to me, you have not always the full Exerciſe of your own Powers. [309] Now, for Argument's ſake, we will let this paſs; but then believe me, Fanny, if I remem⯑ber right, I had not ſo refined and ſpeculative Senſe, as you have now, when I was at your Age. All the Improvement, I have ever made to it, has been almoſt ſince that Time; and a practiſed Wreſtler may be able to overcome an inexperienced Man of greater natural Abilities. You are now in a State and Stage of Life proper to improve yourſelf, and may have this Advantage over me, that you can have the Help of one, who has lately travelled through the Road, you are to go; ſo that I hope, in Return, to have your Aſſiſtance, as your Un⯑derſtanding will be at the Height, when mine, from the Courſe of Nature, will be on the Decline. This I ſhould look upon as a Sort of Triumph, of the moſt flattering Kind, namely, a Conqueſt over myſelf; that is, my better Part overcoming my worſe. Beſides, you have the Advantage of a chaſte and religious Education, which will the ſooner enable you to reach the only End I have ever propoſed from my Studies, to make me rather a better, than a wiſer Man. Moral Philoſophy may reform our Manners, and ſubdue our Paſſions; but ſlowly the one, and with a conſtant Struggle the other; while Religion effects the firſt at once, and the latter with Eaſe, by ſubſtituting more charming Plea⯑ſures in their ſtead.

[310]This is the moſt romantic Place I ever ſaw: There are not two hundred Yards of level Ground in the whole Country; for it is com⯑poſed of an infinite Number of green Hills, lying ſo cloſe to each other, that it reſembles a Codlin Pye in a Bowl-diſh. So that the Nurſe's Story of Giants, of old, ſtepping from one Hill to another, round the Country, would not appear an improbable Tale here. It is much the ſame Way at Hermitage too, and, in general, thro' all thoſe Parts of this Country, I have yet ſeen.

I hope you are reading Brown upon the Characteriſtics, and writing Notes upon it: I am ſure you are, becauſe I deſired it. I ſhould be glad to have your Opinion upon the Definition of Virtue, given in the laſt Lines of the third Section of the ſecond Eſſay, upon the moral Obligations of Man to Virtue. I give you fair Play, by telling you that I think this Definition falſe and imperfect; and only aſk you, how it is ſo. Read the firſt, ſecond, and third Sections carefully, before you give your Opinion; not that you will diſcover the Error from them, but they will help you to judge the better.

This is a ſevere Trial of my dear Pupil; for, I own, when firſt I read the Book, I was fully ſatisfied with the Definition: And, to give you ſome Help in this Matter, I agree that he has ſhewn the Imperfection of the other [311] three Definitions of Virtue; but yet I ſay, he has given a more imperfect and dangerous one himſelf.

LETTER CCCIX.

IN the diſagreeable and embarraſſed Situation I am at preſent, I know nothing could tempt me to write, but the Fear of your thinking I poorly declined the Taſk you have aſſigned me, without being ingenuous enough to confeſs myſelf unequal to it. I had gone through the whole Eſſay on the Obligations of Man to Virtue, before I received your Letter; and had remarked the Definition, you mention, to be as imperfect as any of thoſe, he terms ſo: For which Reaſon, I had contented myſelf with thinking that Virtue is not to be defined; and had taken up ſo much of Dr. Clarke's Opinion, as to believe, that though, like the Certainty of an Almighty Being, it cannot be reduced to Terms, or fully proved and explained by Words, yet is it ſelf-evident to every rational Creature. Brown ſays, Virtue conſiſts ‘in the Conformity of our Affections with the public Good, and the voluntary Production of the greateſt Hap⯑pineſs▪’ If, by the Public, he means all [312] human Kind, he might have explained it by univerſal Benevolence; which is ſo far from excluding the natural or moral Ties, that it certainly ſtrengthens them.

But, if he confines his Idea of the Public to a particular Nation or People, he doubtleſs makes Virtue of a variable and indeterminate Nature; and, at once, deſtroys his own Syſtem, and it's Exiſtence: For, tho' the Love of our Country is certainly a very noble and proper Principle; yet, as the Intereſts of every Nation and People vary, what may be virtuous with regard to the Advantages of one, may be highly criminal by becoming prejudicial to another. This therefore cannot be the true Criterion of Virtue: It's Effects muſt be uniform, independent of Time or Place, as it is itſelf the ſame in the Vale of Santone, or the Palace of Verſailles.

I am ſtill more diſpleaſed at the latter Part of his Definition, ‘the voluntary Production of the greateſt Happineſs.’ As this may be underſtood, poorly confining Virtue to the par⯑ticular Stations of Affluence or Power. I cannot think this was the Author's Meaning; yet, as it may be wreſted to this Point, I think it is dangerouſly expreſſed; for it may tend to diſ⯑courage [313] the Exerciſe of Virtue in thoſe, who have it not in their Power to do great or generous Actions.

I have now given my dear Preceptor the higheſt Proof of my Obedience to his Com⯑mands; and, as we are told in Scripture, that "Obedience is better than Sacrifice," I hope he will accept the Will for the Deed. Believe me, my deareſt Life, I have never been ſo much hurt at the Conſciouſneſs of my own Weakneſs, as at this Moment. I know I have expoſed it; but I know I have an indulgent Maſter, who will forgive and inſtruct me. From the firſt of our Correſpondence, I have ever declined writing, tho' I was vain enough of my Capacity in that Way before; but the Perfection of your Letters has ſhewn me my Inſufficiency in ſuch a glaring Light, that I never ſit down to anſwer a Letter of your's, without bluſhing. You ſay, I am now ‘at an Age, and in a State of Life, to admit Improvement.’ My Age is doubtleſs on your Side, but my Situation much againſt you. The Quickneſs of my Apprehenſion, which is, or ſhould be my beſt Help to ſtudy, is turned to melancholy Proſpects, and my Attention to any Thing I read continually interrupted, as I never am one Moment alone.

I am aſhamed to ſend this Letter. I would not let it go, but for fear you ſhould think me lazy. Adieu, Life, Love, adieu!

LETTER CCCX.

YOU cannot imagine what Pleaſure your Critique upon Brown gives me. Your Sentiments are extremely clever and juſt, and would become a greater Adept in Philoſophy, than you are; but are really ſurprizing for a young Woman upon ſo abſtruſe a Subject. I am pleaſed to find, that your Remarks have taken a different Turn from mine, tho' we both agree in the ſame Opinion; and am glad I did not ſee your's, before I wrote my own, leſt I ſhould have reſted there, and thought that no farther Criticiſm was neceſſary upon the Subject.

Indeed, my Dear, I intreat you to exert your Talents a little oftener in this Way; for you may be aſſured, that, if I did not think you equal to the Taſk, I would not recommend it to you. Your ſhort and impartial Character is this: You have a very good natural Underſtand⯑ing, a lively Fancy, a quick Apprehenſion, and an eaſy Expreſſion. Your Judgment is rather delicate than ſtrong, and may be better ſtiled a refined Taſte than a logical Reaſon. In ſhort, you need no farther Helps from Nature; and all the Aſſiſtance you want from Art, is to be directed to a Courſe of reading, proper to furniſh [315] you with Subjects fit for your Reflection; and a letter'd Converſe, to exerciſe your Mind, 'till it attains that Health and Vigour, which it is originally capable of.

Adieu, my Life!

LETTER CCCXI.

AS my dear Harry knows the Uneaſineſs, which his Silence gives me, I cannot help ſaying it is more than unkind, it is abſolutely cruel, to neglect writing. There was a Report laſt Week, that you died ſuddenly. I heard it laſt Friday; and my not receiving a Letter from you that Day almoſt diſtracted me. Tho' your Letters are the moſt ſenſible and elegant Pleaſure I can receive in your Abſence, yet is my Affec⯑tion ſo much ſtronger than my Underſtanding, that I would willingly give up the Entertainment they afford me, to be certain of a ſingle Line by every Poſt, which ſhould barely tell me you are well. I know it is a Weakneſs to expect ſuch exact Punctuality; but it is the natural Effect of a greater, the having ſo entirely given up my Heart, as to render my Happineſs wholly dependent on you; a Truſt, for which (contrary to the general Opinion) you can, with Eaſe, give me ſufficient Security.

[316]I received your two Letters of the former Poſts; and think it is really ſomething extra⯑ordinary, that a Perſon, who was bred and has lived like you, ſhould, at your Time of Life, (immerſed in Buſineſs, and involved in diſagree⯑able Circumſtances) without any outward Call, or viſible Help, become ſo great a Proficient in a Science, which to the Generality of the World appears ſo tedious and abſtruſe, as to deter them from being at all acquainted with it; and in which many learned (and from thence called wiſe) Men have paſſed their Lives, with⯑out either making themſelves, or the World, one whit the better for it. In ſhort, I look upon it as a particular Mark of the Almighty's Goodneſs, that has been pleaſed to give you a Turn of Mind, which muſt render you ſuperior to the common Accidents of Life; and that he has thought proper to make you an Inſtance, among the few, that neither Riches, Power, nor Honours are neceſſary to conſtitute the real Happineſs of a rational Being; ſince, with a Taſte and Reliſh for them all, yet unpoſſeſſing any of them, your State is infinitely preferable to thoſe, who, in the full Enjoyment of them all, are unbleſt with true Religion and Philoſophy.

May my ſweet Love long taſte thoſe Bleſſings, which Virtue can alone beſtow! and may it, both in this World and the next, be to him [317] an Addition of his Bliſs, that he has made me better, wiſer, and, of courſe, happier!

Adieu, my Heart's, my Soul's dear Harry!

LETTER CCCXII.

YOU deſired to hear from me on Friday; but thoſe, who love, are fond of Works of Supererogation.

I am reading one of the Books, I brought away from you, intitled Manners, and am well pleaſed with it. I remember the Reaſon of my throwing it aſide, when I bought it for you, was, upon looking a little into it, I obſerved the Author had alluded to a great Number of private Characters, to illuſtrate general Theorems; and, as I had ſometimes met with many inſipid moral Novels of that Kind, I conceived a Prejudice againſt the Book: But I find, from this Author, that, when ſuch a Manner is managed with Wit and Addreſs, it gives a certain Vivacity to this Kind of Writings, and ſtrengthens the Stile, by adding Action to Reaſon.

What incited my Inclination to read this Book, was a Paragraph in the public Papers, that it had given great Offence in France, where it was written, and that there was likely to be [318] a Proſecution againſt the Author; and, as far as I have gone, I find it has a Merit in it very apt to give Offence to Prieſts and Bigots. The Writer is, I think, a Man of Senſe, Learning, Parts, and unprejudiced Reflections. I am, therefore, highly pleaſed to find he is of the ſame Opinion with me, of an innate Idea of irrelative Virtue; which is a Sentiment I am ſo charmed with, that I am fond of laying hold on every Occaſion of diſcourſing about it. So I ſhall here take a Flight at it again.

We have, from the mere Beauty of Nature, a Smell for Flavours, a Taſte for Savours, a Sight for Symmetry, an Hearing for Sounds, and a Feeling for more ſenſual Gratifications. Shall then the Goodneſs, nay the Juſtice of God leave us void of as immediate a Senſation of Virtue, which is a Thing of ſo much higher Conſequence both to ourſelves and others, and both with regard to this Life and the next? Shall, I ſay, the Bounty of God be greater than his Juſtice? Shall our inſtinct Faculties be governed by a divine Impulſe, and ſhall our moral Powers be left without a Guide? for human Reaſon is inſufficient to form the Rule, tho' it's proper Province is to be exerciſed, and converſant about it.

But the Senſes are only the Organs to convey Ideas to the Mind; it is the Soul, which per⯑ceives. Brutes then have a Soul: They have [319] alſo a Spirit, if you give me Leave to make a Diſtinction here; for Matter, of itſelf, is inactive. There are ſo many Inſtances in Brutes of what we partially ſtile little, mimic Reaſon, that Mankind has no great Cauſe to be vain upon the ſole Prerogative of this Excellence; ſince all we can claim is but a higher Degree of this boaſted Superiority.

But we are taught to believe that God formed Man after his own Image: This Favour ſurely was not ſhewn in his human Figure, which Diogenes humourouſly ridiculed, by plucking a Gooſe, and leading it through the Streets of Athens, crying, "Behold Plato's Man!" which that Philoſopher had defined to be a two-legged Animal without Feathers. Nor can this glorious Characteriſtic be preſumed from any one Quality, which Brutes have in any Degree or Analogy with us. What then is this great Diſtinction, upon which we do, and ought ſo juſtly to value ourſelves, but a certain, innate, moral Senſe, which, as the Serpent expreſſes it, ‘makes us as Gods, knowing Good from Evil?’

Brutes are capable of Virtue, according to the common Senſe of it; for many of their Actions demonſtrate Love, Gratitude, and Benevolence: And though, when the Spaniel beats the Field for our Sport or Food, he may be conſidered as acting merely for his own Pleaſure; this is no more than ſome Moraliſts have charged upon [320] human Virtue, which they have reſolved into a Self-ſatisfaction. In ſhort, it is an innate, moral Idea, which makes us ſenſible of Virtue; while Reaſon and free Will only make us capa⯑ble of it.

As ſoon as I have read this Book, I will ſend it up to you.

Adieu, my faireſt Idea!

LETTER CCCXIII.

I WOULD not tell you any thing of the Matter, 'till it was over; but I left Town with a ſore Throat, which increaſed very faſt upon me, laſt Night; but I am this Morning, thank God, as well as ever, and am juſt ſetting out for your own Belvidere.

I have gone a good Way in Manners; and, upon a farther View in that Author, I begin to find the ſame Fault with him, which I did at firſt. His Characters are too frequently intro⯑duced, are tedious, and ill drawn, and many of them not at all to the Purpoſe. However, there are here and there certain Traits of Genius, which, upon the whole, make the Work appear to have been written by two different Perſons; or rather, I have taken it into my Head, that [321] it was wrote by a Woman, who had, for ſome Time, converſed freely with ſenſible Men.

The Author, Authors, or Compiler of this Book ſpeaks very rationally againſt the Doctrine of eternal Miſery; which is a Matter, I think, I have in ſome of my Letters given my Opinion upon; and is a Subject I am ſo fond of, that I ſhall venture to ſpeak the Sentiments, which at preſent occur to me on that Head, without waiting to recollect whether I have ſaid the ſame Things to you before or no, or whether any one has ſaid them before me.

The Doctrine of eternal Miſery eſtabliſhes the Empire of the Devil; for twenty Men muſt be damned, for one that can be ſaved, upon the orthodox Chriſtian Scheme; and the Mediator has ſuffered in vain.

Suppoſe, during the Millennium of the Juſt, there ſhould be a Millennium of the Unjuſt — don't you think a thouſand Years Sufferings may make ſufficient Atonement to divine Juſtice? And I think the popiſh Doctrine of Purgatory only abſurd in the Opinion, that any Merits of the Living can avail the Dead there. How⯑ever, this wild Notion may be conſidered as a pious Fraud to be of Service in Religion, as it multiplies our Inducements to Devotion — As for Example; If I thought my dear Fanny was receiving many Stripes there for her Croſſneſs to me, no Anchorite ever led ſuch an exemplary [322] Life, as I ſhould, to reſcue my own ſpoiled Pet.

Infinite Juſtice, they ſay, requires infinite Satisfaction. Perhaps this is only a Quibble upon Words: But, to take it their own Way, has not the Mediator's Suffering already given this infinite Satisfaction? and muſt every miſer⯑able Wretch, who dies in Sin, become an additional Victim to infinite Juſtice? In ſhort, this ſhocking Doctrine ſeems rather to be a Piece of Prieſt's Rage, than divine Wrath; and is ſuch a blaſphemous Opinion of the Godhead, as exceeds almoſt any of thoſe Lay Crimes, they anathematize ſo vehemently and preſumptuouſly at the ſame Time; and are not aware that they reduce God to a Kind of Fate, while, by extending his Juſtice, they limit his Mercy, and ſo peremptorily deſtroy the Power of free Will in the Exerciſe of his Attributes. But I cannot let this infinite Satisfaction paſs by ſo quietly, without ſhewing that it proves nothing, by proving too much; for infinite Satisfaction muſt be infinite every Way, in Degree as well as Duration; then this deſtroys the equitable Rule of proportionable Puniſhments; for the leaſt Crime requires Satisfaction, infinite Satis⯑faction, infinite in Degree, and infinite in Du⯑ration — ſo that a Man muſt be made a God, before he can be rendered capable of giving ſuch infinite Satisfaction.

[323]I have not done with this Subject, and ſhall reſume it in my next; for the Poſt is juſt going out. Adieu, my own Fanny! Read and write, my charming Pupil, while I endeavour to reflect that Light back again upon you, which you firſt inſpired me with.

LETTER CCCXIV.

I AM juſt come home. My Uncle is as uſual; or, as ſome Man conſtrued Queen Anne's Motto, ſemper eadem, worſe and worſe.

Every Thing here in a backward and neglected Way — Why do not you come done, and ſet Matters to rights? I hope in God I ſhall not be long the only Slave in your Affairs. I have many Things to take care of; and there is but one Perſon, I can, or ſhould chuſe to confide in, and her Help I am deprived of. O my Soul, keep ſteddy to your Philoſophy! for my old Friend Providence will not forſake you.

I have finiſhed Manners, and ſtill think of that Book, as I did in my laſt; and could point out ſeveral Paſſages, to ſhew that it is rather a Collection, than an original Work. I do not mean from his general Reaſoning; which, if right, cannot avoid being the ſame with others, [324] who have wrote juſtly upon the ſame Subject; but what I would inſtance, are particular Turns of Thought and Expreſſion, which I have met with before. There is one among them taken from Monteſquieu's Perſian Letters: ‘That it appears more reaſonable, that the Minority, inſtead of the Majority, ſhould determine a Queſtion; for ten Men think wrong, for one who judges right.’ The only Difference between this Whim in the Lettres Perſanes, and this Book, is, that Monteſquieu only threw out this Sentiment as a Stroke of Fancy; but our Moraliſt ſeems to advance it as a grave Argument, and ſupports it by a Text from Exodus, diſingenuouſly quoted. His Words are, that the Jewiſh Legiſlator adviſes us ‘not to paſs our Judgment according to the Opinion of the greater Number;’ which Words do certainly ſupport his ridiculous Argument: But obſerve the literal Words of the Text, and you will ſee how unfairly he deals with it. ‘Thou ſhalt not follow a Multitude, to do evil; neither ſhalt thou ſpeak in a Cauſe, to decline after many, to wreſt Judgment.’ Exod. xxiii.2. Adieu!

LETTER CCCXV.

I HAVE but juſt Time to tell my ſweet Love that I have ſpent the greateſt Part of this Day with my dear Lady —. She came to Town on Sunday Night, and ſent to me Yeſter⯑day. Indeed ſhe is a charming Woman.

I am ſorry for your Uncle's Diſorder, but am afraid he is incurable. I am ſure I need not ſay how earneſtly I wiſh to ſhare and alleviate your every Diſtreſs and Fatigue: But, tho' I am, at preſent, denied that Happineſs, I will rely on that Providence, who can, and will, in his good Time, remove every Obſtacle, that prevents my leſſening your Inquietudes, by taking that Share in them, which is immediately my Right; and which I would not part with, nor exchange, for any Title, that could put me into the Poſſeſſion of Power, Wealth and Honours.

I could ſay more, much more upon this Subject, but hear the Tinkling of the Poſt⯑man's Bell; therefore muſt conclude truly and affectionately your's,

LETTER CCCXVI.

I FORGOT to mention to you, in my laſt, another remarkable Paſſage in our moral Plagiariſt; even Pope's much-admired Simile of a Stone thrown into a ſtanding Lake, verbatim, except the Rhyme.

But let us have done with him, for he inter⯑rupted me laſt Poſt in the Proſecution of my Argument upon eternal Miſery; and how, or how far, I reaſoned upon that Subject, I do not recollect at preſent; for I have been deep involved in Affairs of this World, ſince I came home: But I ſhall proceed as Thoughts now occur, without Regard to Order; as you know I take the Liberty with you of making my Letters a Sort of Common-Place-Book. Not that I deſire any Writer ſhould ſee, or expect they would borrow any Thing from theſe rude Eſſays, which I find an Amuſement to revolve in my own Mind, and a Pleaſure to communicate to you, for whom alone I write, tho' it is for both our ſakes I read.

I am not ignorant that the Scriptures are full of penal Threats; but I do not remember that they are denounced to all Eternity: Nay I think the contrary is implied in a Text, which the Popiſh Clergy quote for Purgatory; ‘there to [327] remain, 'till thou haſt paid the uttermoſt Farthing.’ It is an Alluſion made to the State of a Debtor. I am afraid that even eternal Happineſs is not fully promiſed in the Scriptures, which ſurely is a more reaſonable Faith than the other; and that this glorious Hope is rather a moral Preſumption than a divine Revelation. Our principal Arguments upon this Head are drawn from the perfect Goodneſs of God, the Analogy running through all his Works. The natural Frame of the human Soul, it's frequent Satiety of all worldly Enjoyments, (except alone it's Contemplation of the Divine Nature,) it's earneſt Longings after that ſupreme, elevated, and complete Bliſs, and a certain natural Sym⯑pathy, the virtuous and religious Mind feels to be again allied to ſome more excellent Nature, which it ſeems to have, as it were, a Senſe of being lately ſeparated from. I think it may be rationally inferred from all this, that, to ſatisfy the natural Frame of ſuch a Soul, it's Bliſs muſt be eternal; for Pleaſures not made to cloy can give no Satiety. Now extend, rather ſay limit, our heavenly Bliſs to the millionth Power of a millionth Myriad of Years, which is almoſt infinitely beyond the Art of Numbers to enumerate; yet even the immediate Bliſs of the ſublimed Spirit would be, from that Re⯑flection, rendered imperfect; as, the higher our Happineſs in Poſſeſſion, the more ſenſibly are [328] we affected at even the moſt remote Thought of parting with it. And I ſhould prefer my State even in this vile World, ſatiated with frail, mortal Joys, and oppreſſed with life-long Cares, but preſuming upon the great Hope of a glorious Immortality, to the moſt ſublime Pleaſures of the next, limited in Proſpect even one Thought ſhort of Eternity. Shall we loſe our earneſt Reliſh, our virtuous Longing after Immortality in a State of certain Bliſs, which operates ſo emphatically in our Souls, even while the Vices of the Body, and the Corruption of the Heart, occaſion that Thought to be attended with a Dread of what Eternity we may be doomed to? or may the Soul, in perfect Bliſs, have one Deſire ungratified? In ſhort, to bring this heart-tranſporting, metaphyſic-inſpiring Subject as near to Demonſtration as poſſible, let me preſume to argue thus: If the Souls of Men are not im⯑mortal, God has granted us leſs Happineſs, than we are capable of, which is contrary to our Notion of God, ‘with whom is Fulneſs of Joy, and Pleaſure for evermore.’

Thus Man has a rational Prae-ſentiment of future Bliſs, and a rational Deduction of it's Eternity; but he has neither one or the other with regard to future Miſery, or it's Eternity. The only Dread, which appears to me natural to the Mind of Man, is that very ſhocking one of Annihilation.

[329]What I mean is, that Man has not any natural Forebodings of future Miſery, tho' his Reaſon may draw ſome Inference about it: But then this Reaſon can never conclude for eternal Puniſhments; and his Faith muſt be blind, who could credit that Religion, which adhibited ſuch a Revelation.

So that the Doctrine of Puniſhments reſts merely upon what Revelation is made about them; which, as I hinted before, does not de⯑nounce them eternal, at leaſt the Miſery.

Nay I think farther, that, tho' Rewards may be agreeable to divine Juſtice, Puniſhments are not. If I remember right, I ſaid ſomething upon this Subject to you in a former Letter, by alluding to human Laws; ſo ſhall inſiſt on it no farther here: But, to take away all Cavil from this Paradox, and to treat this Subject more equally, I ſhall deny that either Rewards or Puniſhments, tho' allowed in the moral Senſe, are agreeable to divine Goodneſs or Juſtice, in the legiſlative Senſe; and perhaps I may argue in concert with the Scripture too.

The Pleaſing or Diſpleaſing of God are but figurative Expreſſions, which, taken in a literal Senſe, have occaſioned the Terms of Rewards and Puniſhments; for thus are divine Matters confounded and impured, by drawing Analogies between them and human Things. Now our good or bad Actions relate entirely to our own [330] Happineſs or Miſery; and would it not be partial to beſtow a Reward, where there can poſſibly be no Merit? for, as the Scripture ſays, ‘after all we ſhall be but unprofitable Servants:’ As it would be cruel to inflict a Puniſhment, where Ignorance, Paſſion, or Temptation may lead a Man into Vice; for, as the ſame Scripture ſays, "where little is given, little ſhall be expected."

I would not hazard this Subject, ſo unfiniſhed, to any Hands but your's, as I am obliged to break off in a very dangerous Criſis; but the Night is far ſpent, and next Poſt ſhall be em⯑ployed to extract the Poiſon.

Adieu, thou ſole Partner of my Heart, and only Confidante of all it's Sentiments!

LETTER CCCXVII.

I THINK then, with ſome ſenſible Divines, that Rewards and Puniſhments are not be⯑ſtowed or inflicted upon our Actions, good or bad; but that Happineſs or Miſery is the pre⯑ordained Conſequence of Virtue or Vice; and that, as natural Virtue or Vice, as Temperance and Exerciſe, or Intemperance and Inactivity, produce Health or Diſeaſe in this World, ſo moral Virtue or Vice as eſſentially are attended with Happineſs or Miſery in the next.

[331]Now, if our Portions hereafter be general moral Conſequences, and not particular juſticiary Adaptions, I can perceive no Reaſon how the Soul of Man can be, at any Time, precluded from redeeming itſelf by a thorough Contrition, and ſincere Repentance; or that a Halter or a Quinſey ſhall be ſufficient to deprive it of Bliſs, to all Eternity: For a Spirit, at any Period of it's Exiſtence, reclaimed to a full and perfect Senſe, Love, and Adoration of the Eſſence, Truth, Goodneſs, and Power of God, muſt neceſſarily attract to itſelf that Happineſs, which is eſſentially allied to ſuch a State of Mind.

But ſome ſevere Divines may here object, that a departed Spirit can poſſibly have no Merit in Contrition or Repentance, when Temptation to Sin is no more, and when the conſequential Miſery is demonſtratively aſcertained, and ſeverely experienced. To which, Part of my laſt Letter may be an Anſwer, where the Merit of Virtue is denied; and the Beginning of this Letter may be referred to, where Happineſs is ſaid to be the Conſequence, not the Reward of Virtue. And, as we are taught to believe that higher Spirits than our's have been plunged into the Abyſs for Sin, in the next World; why may we not hope that a poor human Soul may be capable of emerging from thence, by Righteouſneſs here⯑after? for ſurely Religion is not limited, either in Place or Time, to the narrow Bounds and [332] ſhort Duration of this paltry Globe; but extends itſelf thro' the whole Univerſe of Intelligence, and ſhall continue to all Eternity.

I look upon this Life to be a State of Trial, and the next to be a State of Purgation, from which, perhaps, the moſt perfect Man may not be exempt: For Vengeance is not of the Eſſence of God; but his Nature is ſo pure, that no Spirit may approach the Throne of his Grace, obſcured by Stain or Blemiſh; and a State of thorough Purgation, that is, of ſincere Repen⯑tance, without Temptation to Sin, is neceſſary to prepare us for the Bliſs of Angels. So that I look upon the Devil's Empire to be of this World only, and not extended to the next; for here he may tempt, but there he cannot.

I think, then, that a Soul purged from Sin, by any Method, is a proper Object of the Divine Favour. ‘Whom the Lord loveth, he chaſteneth.’ Can Chaſtiſement then be deemed the Effect of Hatred, in the Lord, "who hateth nothing, which he has made?" And does not a Father cordially love a Son, whom he has reclaimed by Diſcipline? Is not the Penitence of a Sinner accepted of by God, tho' effected by Pain, Poverty, or other Mis⯑fortune in this Life? Shall the whole heavenly Hoſt rejoice over a repentant Sinner in this World; and ſhall the Circumſtance of Time or Place deprive them of Charity, when our [333] Souls become more nearly allied to them, than in the Fleſh?

In ſhort, if Puniſhments, or Miſery, either judiciary or conſequential, be eternal, in any one Inſtance, the Devil has triumphed ſo far; which is Blaſphemy: But, according to the Severity of ſome Divines, there can be but a ſmall Minority ſaved; which would look like a very paltry Compoſition for the Redeemer of Mankind to make.

If this Doctrine may appear to ſet Men too free from Terror, to influence their Conduct toward a virtuous Life, I ſhall conſider this Subject in that Light, in another Letter; and do aſſure you, my deareſt Ally, that I am as ſincerely attached to you, as if I thought my Salvation depended upon it. Adieu!

LETTER CCCXVIII.

SINCE my laſt Letter I have looked into the Bible, and find ſome Paſſages, where eternal Puniſhments are denounced; but then I find alſo ſeveral other Places, where the Words eternal and everlaſting are meant in a limited Senſe, for a long and indefinite Time. So that I think theſe Texts do not preclude me from reaſoning upon this Subject.

[334]I own, the firſt Thing which occurred to me, when I met with Expreſſions in the Scripture, that ſeemed to ſhock my Reaſon, and my Idea of God, was, to ſuppoſe them only Threats in Terrorem; but then this alarmed me about the Conſequence, which ſuch a Surmiſe might draw after it, with regard to the Promiſes mentioned in the ſame Scripture. However, upon Recol⯑lection, I did not think this Inference ſhould logically follow; for a Promiſe is a Contract, the virtuous Man a Purchaſer, and Juſtice exacts the Obligation: But the Caſe is quite different with regard to Threats. A Lord may ſay to his Steward, ‘Tend well this Farm 'till my Return, and I will make thee an Inheritance out of it; but, if you ſuffer the Soil to be over-grown with Briars, I will cauſe thee to be flayed alive.’ Now, tho' the Lord muſt fulfil his Promiſe out of Juſtice, he ſurely may forgive the Penalty out of Mercy.

But I do not mean to inſiſt upon this Argu⯑ment; for, as the Texts I hint at may be ſo interpreted as to agree with the Reaſoning of my former Letters, I ſhould be very tender of charging the leaſt Diſingenuouſneſs upon the Words of God; and, if they were expreſs and uncontrovertible in this or any other Particular, againſt my Senſe or Opinion, I would, as becomes me, ſubmit my Reaſon to my Faith. And indeed, tho' the Diſtinction I have made [335] between Promiſes and Threats, does ſufficiently prove that Juſtice or Reaſon does not require the Completion of denounced Vengeance, yet certainly Truth requires that every Thing ſhall be, as it is affirmed.

In order to help us the better to frame a Judgment upon this Subject, let us take the Matter as high as we can, by beginning at original Sin; and yet all the Curſe, we hear, upon that Occaſion, ſeems to be Temptation, Labour, and Death, (Geneſis iii.15, and to the End.) That is, it may be apprehended, that the natural Conſequence of the firſt Parent's Sin was the debaſing human Nature to a State of Frailty, Mechanics, and Mortality; which imperfect Nature was, from thence, derived down to all their Race: ‘For an evil Tree bringeth forth evil Fruit.’

Our Redeemer afterwards, at a certain Time, (though reſolved from the Beginning) takes our Nature upon him, (and is thence ſtiled our ſecond Adam) by which benevolent and godlike Condeſcenſion Mankind was retrieved to their former Dignity, ſo far as to be rendered capable of their former Perfection, perhaps greater; in which the whole Myſtery of the Incarnation ſeems to lie, not in the unaccountable Doctrine of ſatisfying the Divine Juſtice; which Doctrine has perplexed the Faith of many well-diſpoſed Chriſtians, and, perhaps, has prevented this [336] Religion from becoming as univerſal, as it's other Evidence, and moral Perfection, ſeems to promiſe.

That Mankind ſhould labour under Guilt, for the Sin of our firſt Parents, and that they ſhould be redeemed by the Sacrifice of God; the firſt not our Crime, and the latter not our Merit; ſeems to be a Scheme of Providence contrary to Senſe or Religion: But that a Race of Beings, proceeding from Adam, after his Fall, ſhould conſequentially be of too corrupt a Nature to be capable of perfect Bliſs; and that our Redeemer, becoming our ſecond Parent, a Man every Way, (Sin only excepted) ſhould thereby reſtore that Purity to our Nature, as may render it capable of perfect Happineſs, is, in my Opinion, a Doctrine agreeable to meta⯑phyſical Philoſophy, reconcileable to the Nature of Things, to the eternal Laws of God; and likewiſe vindicates him from the Charge of Vengeance or Partiality, as the whole Conſe⯑quences ſeem to proceed from the original Formation of Things.

From all which Reaſoning, I ſhall venture to conclude againſt eternal Puniſhments: For, in the firſt Inſtance, at the Fall, even temporary ones are not threatened in futuro; and, in the ſecond Inſtance, at Man's Redemption, if they became ſo then, how many wretched Souls would be Loſers by the Bargain! and Chriſt [337] may be ſaid to have overcome Death only, by his Sacrifice, but not to have conquered Sin.

Theſe few Thoughts occurring to me, when I ſat down to write, have obliged me to defer my Promiſe in my laſt, 'till the next Poſt.

LETTER CCCXIX.

I AM now retired from the Grand Jury, to perform a Promiſe I have delayed for ſome Poſts, and think an Aſſizes a proper Time to diſcourſe about Judgment to come.

When I firſt entered upon this Subject, I own I trembled, as Felix did, for fear of the Con⯑ſequence of my Doctrine; therefore I canvaſſed the Matter a good deal in my own Mind, before I ventured to treat upon it even to you; tho' I was perfectly certain that the Notion of eternal Miſery could not add any thing to the Strength of your Virtue, tho' it might, perhaps, take away ſomewhat of the Merit of it. The Reaſons, then, which ſuffered me to proceed, were theſe.

If I argued juſtly, which I endeavoured to do, I cannot apprehend any ill Conſequence from [338] my Subject. Truth cannot injure Truth; and Error is not neceſſary to bring about the Ends or Deſigns of Providence.

I do not ſay that the Propitiation of our Saviour was ſelf-ſufficient to redeem us totally; but that it did not leave us in a worſe State under the Goſpel, than it found us under the Law, (which, with regard to the many, it would have done, upon this Doctrine;) and only enabled us to work out our own Salvation, but I do not think it has limited the Time.

I think that the ſevere Divines endeavour to prove too much: For, as there is no proportional Juſtice in eternal Miſery, Men may ſuſpect the whole Scheme, from one Flaw, to be but a pious Fraud to deter from Vice; but, when Miſery is taught to be the natural Conſequence of Vice, Damnation may appear to be unavoid⯑able, unleſs the Great, Immutable Being ſhall contradict his eternal Laws; which is abſurd, and ſtill leſs to be expected in Favour of a Sinner.

The Terror of eternal Torments either drives Men to Deſpair, and ſo does more Harm than Good; or is balanced by the Hope of Mercy, in Proportion to it's Fear, and ſo is deſtroyed.

A Man would certainly, with more Prudence, put himſelf into the Power of a provoked Enemy, than expoſe himſelf naked to an eaſterly Wind; [339] becauſe, in one Caſe, ſomething might be hoped from Generoſity and Mercy; but, in the other, he muſt expect the natural Conſequence of his Indiſcretion and Folly.

I think the Doctrine, as it ſtands in the Ortho⯑doxy, ſavours too much of human Politics; and the mixing profane with ſacred Things has often a dangerous Tendency.

Some Divines argue very unfairly, and un⯑comfortably too, upon the Obligations of Man to Virtue, by attributing it to Hope and Fear; as if Rewards and Puniſhments were, as an Allay, neceſſary to make the too refined Idea of it permanent, and fit for Uſe. But ſurely the Love of Virtue is not Hope, nor is the Abhorrence of Vice, Fear; though theſe very diſtinct Ideas ſeem to be confounded by their Definition.

I believe that any Man, who has obſerved the leaſt upon the Motions of the human Mind, has, at ſeveral Times of his Life, perceived a certain Impulſe to ſome Actions, and a Sort of Unwillingneſs to others, though both, in all human Appearance, indifferent in themſelves; nay, ſometimes theſe ſecret Intimations have moved us contrary to the moſt obvious Reaſon about ſuch Things; but in a little Time per⯑haps the Genius of theſe intimate Directions has manifeſted itſelf in ſome remarkable Event [340] of our Lives, unforeſeen, and improbable at that Time.

Is it reaſonable then to ſuppoſe that ſuch Hints ſhould be afforded us in Things merely relative to our Lives or Fortunes in this World, and that we ſhould be left without ſome unerring Guide or Impulſe with regard to Virtue, upon which our nobler Fortunes and immortal Lives depend? Theſe inward Workings of the Spirit, this natural Conſciouſneſs, this Self-evidence, which I have, at ſeveral Times, ſuppoſed in the Mind of Man, I am well convinced, have, in general, a ſtronger Effect toward the Influence of Virtue, than all the Art of Logic, ſupported by the Doctrine of eternal Miſery. For my Part, I have been often guilty of Vice, with all the Fear and Trembling of an orthodox Chriſtian; and have, at other Times, been capable of Virtue, without the leaſt Contemplation about Hope.

As true Religion conſiſts in the perfect Love of God ^*, I do not ſee how Fear is, any way, neceſſary to Piety; except that beſt and ſtrongeſt of all Fears, which proceeds from extreme Love. ‘There is Mercy with thee; therefore ſhalt thou be feared.’ And I cannot help joining [341] with Shaftſbury, who ſays, ‘that Prieſts have made Religion ſo very ſelfiſh, that I do not ſee, after all, what Merit there is in it worth rewarding.’ Fear may deter from Vice, but can never conduce to Virtue.

The leſs we ſuppoſe the Deity capable of Cruelty or Revenge, the higher our Love muſt naturally riſe; and it is certain that Mankind is apt to undertake nobler and more difficult Actions from the Spirit of Love, than from the Paſſion of Fear. There is a Courage in our Natures, which ſpurns at Fear; but a Tender⯑neſs in our Frames, which diſpoſes to Love: And, if any Man is baſe enough to be in⯑fluenced by Terror, it is becauſe he has not had his Mind ſufficiently imbued with more worthy Principles; and, in this Caſe, which is corrupt Morals, it is too often found that even Fear will have no Avail. Inſtances are num⯑berleſs of moral Pagans, independent of Hope: For, tho' in the Writings of the Antients there are very fine Reaſonings upon a future Life, and Retributions of Juſtice; yet theſe appear to be rather the Effect of their Philoſophy, than the Cauſe of their Virtue.

The Jeſuits have a blaſphemous Tenet with regard to Communicants: ‘That Attrition alone, which proceeds merely from the Fear of Hell-Torments, without Contrition, which [342] comprehends the Love of God, is ſufficient to juſtify a Sinner at the Sacrament.’

I will here give you ſome of the truly religious Sentiments of Father Queſnel, which I think regard this Subject; and, in order to raiſe your Eſteem for them, I need only tell you, they are ſome of the Propoſitions condemned by the infamous Bull Unigenitus.

‘As Sin proceeds from a miſtaken Love of ourſelves, ſo Virtue proceeds from a true Love of God.’

‘Fear ſtops only the Hand; but the Heart remaineth adherent to Sin, as long as it is not directed by the Love of Juſtice.’

‘He, who refrains from Evil only out of Fear of Puniſhment, commits it in his Heart, and is already guilty of it before God.’

‘He, who is baptized, is yet under the Law, even as a Jew, if he doth not fulfil it, or if he fulfil it only thro' Fear.’

‘Moſes, and the Prophets, the Prieſts, and the Doctors of the Law are dead, without ſending any Children to God, ſince they have made Slaves, but thro' Fear.’

‘They, that are under the Curſe of the Law, do no Good; becauſe it is equal Sin to do Evil, or to ſhun it thro' Fear.’

‘He, that approacheth God, ſhould not come to him with brutal Paſſions; nor be [343] led by Inſtinct or Fear, as Beaſts, but by Faith and Love, as Children.’

‘Slaviſh Fear repreſents God as a ſevere, imperious, unjuſt, and unmerciful Maſter.’

To all which I ſhall add, that Fear may make good Citizens, but Love alone makes good Chriſtians. And, upon the whole, I really think that in my Doctrine there is Myſtery enough to exerciſe Faith, and Inducements ſufficient to influence Action.

LETTER CCCXX.

I HAVE, ever ſince the Cloſe of my late nice and extraordinary Subject, been examining and viewing it in ſeveral Lights, to find out whether my Reaſoning had proceeded from the Prejudice of former Opinions, or had ariſen from an Hope produced by a Sinner's Fear. But I found, that, during a conſtant Neglect of religious and Chriſtian Duties, and a free Indulgence of a debauched and libertine Life, [344] I preſerved an unheſitating Belief in the Ortho⯑doxy of Hell-Torments; and that, 'till within theſe few Years, that is, ſince I became in Practice, as well as Belief, a Chriſtian, I never had the leaſt Doubt upon the Subject. The Truth is, that I had never before given myſelf Leiſure to reaſon about Religion, and had en⯑tirely reſted upon a childiſh Belief, inſtead of ſupporting myſelf by a rational Faith. Perhaps a Diſpute upon this Subject may be put an End to by a very ſtrong, though not obvious, Diſtinction between Puniſhment and Miſery; and I will agree with the Orthodoxy, that Sinners may be eternally puniſhed, though not eternally miſerable. A leſs Degree of Bliſs, than we are taught from Reaſon and Revelation our Souls are capable of, is a Puniſhment, but not a Miſery; and, after having ſuffered ſuch Pains and Torment, emblematized by the purging ſo as by Fire, as is ſufficient to fulfil the Meaſure of divine Juſtice, ſome inferior Degree of immortal Bliſs may be the higheſt Portion of a Sinner's Redemption; the Conſciouſneſs of which Limi⯑tation having proceeded from his own Vices, or Demerits, may be that Puniſhment, which is deſcribed in Scripture by the Metaphor of the Worm that never dieth.

As I have, thro' the Courſe of this Argument, made uſe merely of human Reaſon, inſtead of [345] ſcriptural Authority, I ſhall here call in Aid ſome profane Writing to ſupport me. Socrates ſpeaks by Plato in his Gorgias much to this ſame Purpoſe; and again in his Phaedo, where he is diſcourſing juſt before his Death. I have not the Book here, or I would ſend you the Quotations.

Now I can hardly ſuffer this to paſs for pro⯑fane Authority; for he was not only the greateſt Heathen that ever lived, but was ſtiled, by ſome of the Fathers of the Church, a Chriſtian before Chriſtianity; and Eraſmus ſeems to conſider him as an inſpired Perſon. Perhaps, the Fulneſs of Time being then near at Hand, and the World, as it were, entient with the God of Life and Immortality, ſome Ray of Divinity might have illumined that great Man, as the Sun diſperſes a Twilight, before itſelf appears.

It was at this remarkable Aera, when moral Philoſophy was brought to the higheſt Pitch that ever it arrived at, in the Heathen World, that Socrates, or Plato for him, acknowledged the Inſufficiency of natural Reaſon to perfect this great Scheme, and called aloud for a Revelation to diſpel the Miſts of Error, and afford us a certain, infallible, and ſafe Guide to direct Mankind in the Paths of Virtue.

If I have erred in my Reaſonings upon this Subject, it has been owing more to the Weak⯑neſs [346] of my Underſtanding, than the Wickedneſs of my Heart. So I ſhall conclude here with the two laſt Lines of Buckingham's Epitaph, the whole of which I once tranſlated for you: