QassIPKSBSa- Book n2^-l lI.l).(ViljH LETTERS OF THE LATE LORD LITTELTON riJIIlD AMERICAA^ EDITION. PHILADELPHIA: LISHED BY UICKSIAN 8c HAZZATID, NO. 12 L l^S^VT STREKT; AND HAZZATin & lHCK.r*IA.>% P£Ti:USQURG, VA. 182/, WASW 71? 3^ f r INTRODUCTION. There is no species of publication which seems to be more agreeably received than that, which illustrates the cliaracters of men distinguished for their abilities, venerable for their erudition, and admired for their virtues. The political history of great men is useful and necessary to many, but the domestic history of all men is useful and necessary to all. Among the materials from whence the bi- ographer forms the volume of domestic charac- ters, private letters are considered as the most valuable, because they are the most unequivo- cal authorities of real sentiment and opinion. Conversation is too fugitive to be remembered; public declarations may be oftentimes sus- pected; but the epistolary communications of friendship may be depended upon as faithful to the mind from whence they arise. The following letters, therefore, as proceeding from a nobleman, whose great talents promised no small utility to his country, and whose charac- ter has been the subject of such general specu- IV INTRODUCTION. lation, will, without doubt, meet with a favour- able reception. That tliey were not written with the most distant idea of being offered to the world, will, be evident to every reader; and, surely, no in- considerable share of merit will be allowed them from such a circumstance. They may want perhaps the correctness and accuracy of prepared compositions; but they possess that easy sincerity, and that open unbosoming of sentiments, which form the charm of episto- lary correspondence. Some liberties have been taken with the letters at large, by omitting such as alluded to transactions which the world already too well knows, or which it would be shameful to betray. But no alteration has been made in any indivi- dual letter, except an occasional retrenchment of expressions, which, however common in fashionable life, or unobserved in fashionable conversation, would not justify their being condensed into print, and might give cause of offence to the scrupulous reader. There may be also some irregularity in the disposition of the letters; the thirteenth, and the last, should have an earlier place ; but they INTRODUCTION. V were already numerically arranged; and, as a precise order does not seem to be material, no alteration of this kind has been attempted, which, after all, must have been made upon conjecture. As these letters were, in general, without any dates, and not one of them marked with that of the year, it was thought proper to omit them throughout. The thirtieth letter, which appears to have been written the last of the collection, bears, in the manuscript copy, a conjectural date of the summer of 1775. As it was a matter of particular request, it was thought prudent to suppress the names of those persons to whom these letters were addressed; though it is rather natural to suppose, that every reader, who has lived in the world, will form very probable conjectures of them, with- out any great exercise of thought or power of divination. LETTERS, &c. LETTER r. MS. DEAH FIlIE3n), You do me great injustice; I receive 5'our letters with tlie greatest pleasure; and I gave your last the usual welcome, though every line was big with reproaches to me. I feel myself greatly mortified that you should have a sus. picion of any neglect on my part. When I cease to answer your addresses, you will be justified in supposing me careless about them; till then, you will, I hope, do me the justice, as far at least as relates to yourself, to think well of me- I very sensibly feel the advantage of your good opinion, and tlie loss of it would greatly affect me. You may be assured that my insensibility to reputation is not such as some part of my conduct may have given you reason to believe; for, after all his blustering and looking big, the heart of the worst man caimot be at ease, when he forces a look of contempt towards the ill opinion of mankind. In spite of all his bra- vadoes, he is an hypocrite twelve hours out of the four and nventy; and hypocrisy, as it is well said, is ihe honnage which Vice pays to Virtue; unwillingly, I confess; but still she is forced to pay it. I will most frankly acknowledge to you, that I have been as well disposed to turn my back upon the good opinion of the world as any one in it; and that I have sometimes accomplished this important business without confusion of face, but never without confusion of heart. On a late very mortifying occasion, it was not in my power to possess myself either with one or the other. At a public and very numerous meeting in the county whei-e my father lives, where great part of his property lies, where his inlluence is considerable, and his name re- spectable, Iwas not only deserted, but avoided; and the women could not have discovered more horror on my approaching them, if I had been Tarquin himself I found myself alone in the crowd, and which is ashad, alone out ofthe crowd. I passed the evening without con^.pany; and two or three such evenings would either have driveii me to despair, or have reformed me, T was then convinced, as 1 always am when I write to you, that there is some particle of good still remaining in me; but I flew from that solitary scene which gave such a convic- lion, to renew that dissolute intemperance which would destroy it. It is a great misfortune, that vice, be it what it may, will find some one or other to flatter it; and that there should be assemblies of people, where, when public and honourable society has hissed you from the stage, you may find, not only reception but applause — little earthly pandemon turns, where you meet with every means to hush the pains of reflection, and to guard against the intrusions of conscience. It requires a most gigantic resolution to suffer pain, when passion quickens every sense, and every enticing object beckons to enjoyment. I was not born a Stoic, nor am I made to be a martyr! So much do I hate and detest pain, that I think all good must be dear that is to be purchased with it. Penitence is a rack where ofTences have been grievous. To sit alone and court Reflection, v/hich will come perhaps, every moment, with a swinging sin at her back, and to be humble and patient beneath the stripes of such a scourge; by heavens, it is not in human nature to bear it ! I am sure, at least, it is not in mine. — If I could go to confession, like a good papist, and have the score wiped off at onee, a la bonne heure! But to repent like a sobbing paralytic presbyterian, will not do for me ; I am not fat enough to repent that way, A 2 10 George Bodens may be qualified for such a sys- tem of contrition; but my skinny shape will not bear mortification ; and if I were to attempt the subdual of my carnal lust by fasting and prayer, I should be soon fasted and prayed into the family vault, and disappoint the worms of their meals. I have had, as vgu well know, some serious conversations with my father upon the subject; and one evening he concluded a christian lec- ture of a most unchristian length, by recom- mending me to address Heaven to have mercy upon me, and to join my prayers to his con- stant and paternal ones for my reformation. These expressions, with his preceding coun- sels, and his affecting delivery of them, had such an effect upon me, that, like the king in Hamlet, I had bent the stubborn sinews of my knees when it occurred to me that my devo- tions might be seen through the key-hole. This drew me from my pious attitude; and, having secured this aperture, so unfriendly to secret deeds, I thought it would not be an use- less precaution to let down the window-cur- tains also; and, during the performance of that ceremony, some lively music which struck up in the street caught my attention, and gave a sudden flirt to all my devout ideas, so I girded onmy sword, and went to the Little Theatre in 11 the Haymarket, where Mrs. Cole and the Reve- rend Dr. Squintuin soon put me out of humour with praying, and into humour with mjself. I really began this letter in very sober seri- ousness; and, though I have strayed from my grave airs into something that wears a ludi- crous appearance, 1 beg of you not to give up all hopes of my amendment. If there were but half a dozen people in the world who would afford me that kind encouragement I receive from you, it would I verily believe, work a re- formation in the prodigal ; but the world has marked me down for so much dissoluteness, as to doubt, at all times, of the sincerity of my re- pentance. — — has already told me, more than once, that I am got so deep into the mud as to make it highly improbable that I should ever get out; that I am too bad ever to be good ; and that my future lot is either to be an open vil- lain, or an undeceiving hypocrite. Pretty en- couragement truly! Lady If untingdon would tell me another story: but, however that may be, I shall never give myself up for lost, while I re- tain a sense of your merit, and a value for your friendship. — With these sentiments I take my leave, and beg of you to be assured that I am most sincerely Yours, Sec, 12 LETTER II. So — — — — turns up his eyes, and signifi- cantly shrugs his shoulders, when my name is mentioned ; and, to continue the farce, pre- tends to lament me as a disgrace to his family! J am almost ashamed to acknowledge it, but this idle history has given me a more stinging mortification than I almost ever felt. How in- significant must he become, who is openly despised by insignificance! and how loud must the hiss of the world be, when such a puny whipster insults me! If honourable men were to speak of me with contempt, I should sub- mit without resentment; for I have deserved it. If they should bestow their pity upon me, I should thank them for giving me more than I deserve. If mankind despise, I have ©nly to resist, or fly from the contempt; but to be an object of supercilious airs, from one who, two years ago, would have wiped the dust from oflT my shoes, and who, perhaps, two years hence, will be proud of the same office — a puny prattler, who does not possess a sufficient de- gree of talent or importance to give dignity either to virtue or crime — I say, to be the butt of such a one severely mortifies me. Were I on the other side of the water, his back-biting looks and shrugs should be changed in a mo- 13 ment to well-made bows and suppliant pos- tures. If I live, the scurvy knave shall do me homage ! It really frets me, that I cannot, in four and twenty hours, meet him face to face, and make his subservient attentions give the lie to his humbling compassion, in the presence of those before whom he has traduced me. The day of my revenge will come, when he shall open his mouth for me to spit in it, as he was wont to do, and perform every dirty trick for which parasites were formed. His genius is to fetch and carry; a very spaniel, made to fawn and eat your leavings; whose whole courage rises no higher than to ape a snarl. If I live to outlive this sniffling pedagogue, I shall see him make a foolish end of it. Mark my words — I am a very Shy lock — I will have Revenge ! The last word I have written puts me in mind of telling you that has been with me for some time. The rascal, who is a priest into the bargain, carried aqua fortis in a syringe for three months together, to squirt the fiery liquor into the eyes of a fortunate rival. In this diabolical design he succeeded, and the object of his malice was for ever de- prived of half his sight. I have conversed with him on the horrors of this transaction; but the Italian finds a consolation in his own infernal fedings, and a justification in the dying com- 14 mand of his father, whose last words composed this empliatic sentence — •' Remember y my son, that Revenge is svieetP* This man is capable of any villainy, if money is to be got by it; and I doubt not but he might be bribed to undertake, without hesitation, robbery, seduction, rape, and murder. How- ever, my superior virtue for once overawed his villainy; for he most certainly had it in his power to have robbed me of a large sum of money, without the possibility of a discovery; and, if he thought it necessary, he might have dispatched me with as little danger. I have since asked him what strange fit of virtue, or fear of the devil, came across him, when he had such an opportunity to make his fortune? The impudent rascal repUed, at once, that he had very powerful suggestions to send me to the other world; and that, if, fortunately for him, I had possessed one single virtue, he should, without ceremony, have dispatched me to my reward. This event, I think, will make a complete Mandevillian of me. You see, for your encouragement, that a bad life is good for something ; and for the good example which the world will receive from me in times to come, it will be indebted to the very bad one I have already given it, — After this signal and providential preservation, I cannot but think 15 that Heaven has something particularly great in store for me. As I tell it you, this history has the air of a badinage: but you may be assured that it is a real fact, and I am sorry that the circumstances of it are too long and various to be inserted in a letter. I believe you know something of the man; but, if you repeat what I liave written to any one who is acquainted with him, you will soon find that I have had a very narrow escape. 1 have bribed him to leave me, and lie is gone for Engla7id. The story of Leivis the Fourteenth and his barber is well known ; and you may, if you please, apply it to Your affectionate, he. LETTER III. :\iY di:aii friend, Youu letter, which I received no longer ago than yesterday, would do honour to the most celebrated name among the moral writers of any period. It is the most sensible, easy, and concise history of the Passions I have ever read. Indeed, it has not been my lot to have given any great portion of my time to such studies. These powers have kept me too much in the sphere of their own tumultuous 16 whirlvvintls, to leave me the leisure of examine ing them. I have been, am, and I fear shall be^ their sport and their slave ; and when I shall acquire that serenity of character which will enableme to examine them with aphilosophical scrutiny, t cannot tell. My expectations are at such a distance upon this point, that I am al- most ashamed to mention my apprehensions to you. It is, however, treating you with the con- fidence you deserve, to tell you, that from my soul I think the very source of them must be dried up before they will lose their empire over me. In the lively expression of the poet, " they are the elements of life," without which man would be a mass of insensible and unin- telligent matter. Now, it is that happy com- pound of these elementary particles of intel^ lectual life, that you so well describe, so tho- roughly understand, and so happily possess, which I despair of attaining. I have the reso- lution to make resolutions, but it extends no farther,! cannot keep them: and to escape from the misery brought on by one passion, I have so habituated myself to bathe in a branch of the same flood, that I cannot look for any other relief. You very naturally ask me where all this must end? I know not! and to similar interrogatories I have sometimes madly re- plied, I care not!— Bat I shall not offend you 17 with such a declaration; and when I &m writing to you I do not feel myself disposed to do it. In answering you, therefore, I shall adopt the language of the ruined gamester, vvho ad- dressed his shadow in the glass; " J(^ vous at dit ct redit Malheur-eux! que^ si vous co'itinuez a Jaire de pareils fours, vous iriez a I'hopital.'" You lay great stress upon the powers of Reason, and, in truly philosophical language, heightened by the most proper and affecting imagery, present this sage directress of weak mortals to my attention. I receive her at your hand, x'espect her as your friend, and venerate her as the cause of your superiority over me, but whether she perceives that my respect is insincere, or remembers how shamefully I have neglected her; so it is, that she slides in- sensibly from me, and I see her no more. — My bark rides steady for a moment, but it is not long ere it again becomes the sport of winds and billows. But, after all, and without any blasphemous arraignment of the order of Providence, permit me to ask you, Why is this principle, implanted in our natures for the wise and happy regulation of them, so weak in itself, so slow in its progress, and so la uat you should add another thong .? scor I ge of injustice, iielie ve in my heart, that in your society, .;;id sucJi as I should have met with you, would have been of great use and benefit to me; and *' ; ill being so sparing of your welcomes, you iiccd doing a great good. The very business • rt' this letter has made a gloomy mind less gloonoy; and, if I had half a dozen letters to wrv^to half a dozen persons Uke yourself, if SQ many could be found in the world, it would make this day, in spite of every unpleasant in- disposition, one of the happiest and best of my life. During tlie future part of it, what of good or honour is destined for me, I cannot tell; but I shall ever consider it as a very greaf and most flattering privilege, whenever you will permit me, in any manner, to assure you with what real respect I am, &c. LETTER V. Of all the birds in the air, who should have been liere but ! I met her in the , where she could not well avoid me, though I saw in her looks a wish to do it. She received me therefore with great politeness; conversed 23 i^ith inucli ease and vivacity during the \\\. s ind, when T requested permission to wait o: ler, slie granted it, in that sort of manner >vhich told me, in as strong terms as looks, could give, *' You are very imprudent to risk such a request; but as an absolute refusal w\\ ht raise conjectures in those about us unfavc i .- ble to you, I will not answer you with a denial, and my gates shall not always be shut against you. But you will do well to proportion your visits to what you may naturally conceive to be my desire." And she has kept her word. During six weeks that she was here, I called ten times, and was admitted only thrice, when there M^as a great deal of company. — This is a very superior woman; for, while she conducts I herself in such a manner to me, as to tell me i plainly, that the respect she has for my family is the only inducement to give me the recep- 1 tion she does; there is not a single looksuffer- 1 edto escape her, from which any person might I form the most distant suspicion of her senti- I ments concerning me. It is my blab of a con- science that does the business for me; — it is that keen-sighted lynx, which sees things im- pervious to every other eye; and thus I expose myself to myself, when I appear without spot or blemish to the circle about me. — is a very fine woman, a very sensi- ble woman, and, what is more rare, a very 24 /•ationai woman. The three qualities of beauty, ^calents, and wisdom, which are generally sup- <^oosed to be incompatible in the same female ^f^character, are, however, united in her. There' ^ is another circumstance, which, though a rake, I cannot but admire, and which the most dis- solute respect in others, though they are strangers to it themselves; — I mean constancy. From the united principle of duty and affec- tion, she is faithful to her husband, who, to say the truth, highly deserves it. Such a woman is capable of making the bad good, the incon- stant stable, and the giddy wise; and he, who .i would wish to see what is most perfect and > respectable in the female character, would dp j well to make a pilgrimage to see and con- j verse with her. I was so very much afflicted with a cold, as not to be able to go and hand her to the coach on her departure; which was a circumstance still more afflicting than the | cold; so I consoled myself by writing her a { letter, which was half serious, more than half gallant, and almost sincere. If you could, by any 'means, discover — and I should think it would be in your power to do it without much trouble— whether she has at any time mentioned it, and, if so, in what manner she expressed herself, you would vevy sensibly gratify the curiosity of Your affectionate, &c. 25 LETTER VI. It is so long since I received your letter, Ihat I am almost ashamed to answer it; and be assured that, in writing my apology, and asking your pardon, I act with a degree of resolution that I have seldom experienced. I hardly ex- pect that you will receive the one or grant the other; I do not deserve either, or indeed any kindness from you of any sort; for I have been very ungrateful. I am myself very sensible of it, and very much apprehend that you will be of the same opinion. 1 was never more 0011- •xious of my follies than at this moment; and, I if you should have withdrawn yourself from the very few friends which are left me, I shall not dare to complain; for I deserve the loss, 3AV.\ can only lament that another and a deeper shade will be added to my life. The very idea laf such a misfortune is most grievous; and nothing can be more painful than the reflec- Lion of suffering it from a fatal, ill-starr'd, and abortive infatuation, which will prove my bane. j I have written letters, since I received yours, !;o many who have never done me any kind. jaess; to some who have betrayed me; and to I others whose correspondence administered no i 3ne comfort to my heart, or honour to my cha. :^cteri and for them, at least engaged with B 26 them, I have neglected you, to whose dla- interested friendship I am so much indebted, and which is now become the only point whereon to fix my anchor of hope. But this is not all; if it were, I have some- thing within me which would whisper your forgiveness; for you know of what frail mate- rials I am made, and have ventured, in the face of the world's malice, to prognosticate favourably of my riper Hfe. But I fear that you will ihink meanness added to ingratitude, when I tell you that 1 am called back to ac- knowledge your past goodness to me, and to ask a repetition of it, not from any renewed sentiments of honour or gratitude, but by im- mediate and wringing distress. In such a situa- tion your itlea presented itself to me; an idea which was not encouraged in seasons of en- joyment; it never wished to share my plea- sure, but, like the first-born of friendship, it iiaslened to partake my pain. Though it came in so lovely a form, I ilared not bid it welcome; and I started, as at the sight of one whom I had severely injured, whose neglect, contempt and revenge, I might justly dread, while I did j'iot possess the least means of resistance, nor Juid a covert left where 1 might fly for refuge! This is a very painful confession, and will, I hope, plead my cause in your bosom, and win i 27 you to gTiint my request. I have written to ■ ■ '■■ ■■ for some time past, and have never been favoured with one line of reply. Indeed, it has been hinted that he refuses to read my letters. However that may be, he most cer- tainly does not answer them. In order, there- fore, that I may know my fate, and be certain of my doom, I most earnestly and submissively entreat you to deliver the enclosed letter into his hands.— If I should be deserted by you both, the consequences may be of such a na- ture, as, in the most angry paroxysm, you would, neither of you, wish to Your most obliged, &c. LETTER VII. MT BEAR , I UETURN you all my thanks for the endea- vours you have made to satisfy the wishes of my last letter. I am very grateful to you, though they have proved fruitless, I suppose she destroyed the paper the moment she had perused the contents of it Perhaps she did not even deign to read it, but delivered it immedi- ately to the flames, as tainted and infectious, in coming from so unholy a person as I am. The idea mortifies me. To be treated with contempt is always painful, and more so to those who deserve it, as they have no shelter in themselves to which they can fly for pro- tection; in their own hearts they will find the echo of those sounds against which they shut their ears ; while the good man possesses a shield in his virtue, and returns compassion for injustice. Contempt becomes still more poignant, when it is conducted with a delicacy which does not give you the most momentary opportunity of returning it; when it is so blended with good humour and external de- corum as to let no one see it but the conscious victim. In this manner did the fair lady manage the matter with me; she honoured me with every mark of exterior respect; she suffered no polite attention or civihty to escape her; at the same time, her conduct towards me was so general and equally tempered, that she won me, as it were by enchantment, into the same mode, and precluded familiarity. I had indeed brought myself to the resolution of making my ap- proaches more nearly, when she immediately discovered my design, and, by asking some questions about my father, which were wholly unexpected on my part, and connected with some very stingmg ideas, she threw me al; once to my former distance, dissipated ia « 29 moment the impudence I had collected for the occasion, and I have never seen her since. You have some sportable fancies upon the subject, and you are welcome to them; but for once you are beside the mark; and, though your incredulity may oppose itself to my asser- tion, believe me that I have an honest respect for this woman, and it is on that account that I i am so severely wounded by her treatment of me. The contempt of half mankind is not worth the smile it occasions; they act from caprice, folly, weakness, envy, or some base motive; they join the vulgarclamourthey know not why; and their hiss, though loud, gives not 1 the pain of a moment; but the scorn of good and honourable men is the fruit of conviction; it springs from an aversion to what is contrary I to their own excellence, and cannot be re- torted. There is no other way of being re- ' venged of them, but in giving the lie to their 1 unfavourable prognostications, by an immedi- ate and complete reformation ; and this is a difficulty, my friend, of whose arduous nature you are equally sensible with myself — Facilis descensus Averni — sedrevocare graduiriy &c. &c. &c. — The road by contrition to amendment is I humiliating, painful and difficult ; and the ; greater part of guilty mortals adopt thesenti- ! ments of Macbeth: 30 I am in blood Stept in so far, that should I wade no more, Returning were as bad as to go o'er." But to the purpose; I have another commis- sion for you, in which I flatter myself you will be more successful than in your last. You must know, then, I am in a bad plight, and there is no good ground of expectation that matters will go better with me ; on the contrary, the prospect is a dark one, and the gloom in- creases every step I take. To extricate myself, if possible, I wrote to , who has not answered my letters, and, I am disposed to think, never opens them. I was, therefore, under the necessity of addressing a very piti- ffcil, penitential epistle to . 1 have used him scurvily, and made such an ill return to all his zeal to serve me, that 1 have too much reason to apprehend his resentment. He passed through about six weeks ago, without inquiring after me. However, without appearing to know any thing of that circum- stance, I ventured to tell a miserable tale to him, and to beseech his kindness would once more interest itself in my behalf, by delivering a letter into — • 's own hands. It would be an easy matter, I should imagine to dis- cover if he has complied with my request. Si T— — will inform you if he has been luteiy, and when, in street. Perhaps he may i have scented out something more; and what- ever you can discover, I should be glad to know with all possible dispatch. They will, probably be slow in their operations, whatever they may be, and your information will direct my hopes or confirm my fears — will either i give a sunshine to the present shade, or pre- pare me for the worst. Adieu, and believe me Ever yours, &c. LETTER VIIL YotJ accuse me of neglect in not informing you that I was in London. Believe me, I had every disposition in the world to do it, but was opposed by circumstances, which, among other mortifications, prevented me from seeing you. I came to England in so private a manner, that I imagined no one would, or indeed, could know of my arrival; but by a combination of unlucky circumstances, the secret was dis- covered, and by those who were the most likely to make a very iinpleasant use of theii' knowledge. I was, therefore, obliged to shift my plan, and to beg H to give me an a.sylum in his house, where he very kindly re- ceived and entertained me. Mv abode was not suspected by any one; and I remained there till certain people were persuaded that I had never left the continent, or was again returned to it; and till the hell-hounds, which were in pursuit of me, had relaxed their search. You must, certainly, have heard me mention something of my Host and Hostess: they are the most original couple that ever were paired together; and their singularity effected what, I believe, no other amusement could have attained — it made me forget the disagreeable- ness of my situation. He possesses a strange, wild, rhapsodic genius, which, however, is not uncultivated; and, amid a thousand odd whim- sical ideas, he produces original bursts of poetry and understanding, that are charming. She is a foreigner, assumes the title of Countess, and, without knowing how to write or read, possesses, in the circumstance of dress, behaviour, &c., all her husband's dispositions. She is fantastic, grotesque, outree, and wild; nevertheless, at times, there are very pleasing gleams of propriety in her manners and ap- pearance. I cannot describe so well as you may con- ceive the striking and odd contrast of these two characters; and what strange sparks are produced by the collision of them. When she imagines that Cytherea acknowledges her divinity, and lie grasps in his hand the lyre oi' Apollo; when the goddess unfolds herself to view with imaginary millions at her feet, and when the god chides the chairs and tables for not being awakened into a cotilhon by his strains; in short, when the sublime fit of mad- ness is on, it is an august scene; but if the divi- nities should rival each other, heaven changes instantly into a hell, Venus becomes a trull, and Phoebus a blind fiddler. It is impossible to describe the I'iot ; not only reflections, but things of a more solid nature are thrown at each other. Homer's genius is absolutely ne- cessary to paint celestial combats. But it ends not here; this superb opera, which was acted, at least during my stay, three times a week, and rehearsed generally every day, for the most part, has an happy conclusion. The con- ! test requires the support of nectar, which ' softens the edge of resentment, puts the parties I in good humour, and they are soon disposed to I acknowledge each other's merit and station, \ with a zeal and fondness superior, if possible, ' to their late rage and opposition. A number of collateral circumstances serve as interludes to the grand piece, and, though less sublime, are not less entertaining. You will now, probably, be no longer dis- pleased with me for making my hiding-place B2 34 a secret. One hour's attendance upon our orgies womld have done for you; on the con- trary, they suited me. I wanted something to hurry my spirits, to dissipate my thoughts, and amuse my mind; and I found it in this retreat. You know enough of the parties to enter into my description. I hope it will make you laugh ; but if my pen should fail, I will promise to make your sides ache when we meet again; a pleasure which I look to with a most sensible impatience. I remain Yours most truly, 8cc, LETTER IX. SiscE the little snatch of pleasure I enjoyed with you, I have been again obliged to make my retreat; I had made good my ground, in my own opinion, but the devil that is in me would not suffer me to maintain it. There is a proverb of Zoroaster to the following effect,— «' That there are an hundred opportunities of doing ill every day,but that of doing wellcomes only once a year" There is some wit and much truth in the observation. The wise man %vas led to make it, I suppose, from the cir- cumstances of the times wherein he lived; and If it had been his lot to breathe in these latter 35 days, he would be equally justified in forming and applying such an opinion; and, perhaps, in every intervening period. Indeed, if I may judge from my own experience, matters are still growing worse; for I never fuil to find the daily opportunities, but the annual one has ever escaped me. There is nothing so miserable, and I may add, so unfortunate, as to have nothing to do. The peripatetic principle, that Nature abhors a vacuum, may be applied, with great pro- priety, to the human intellect, which will em- brace any thing, however criminal, rathei' than be without an object. It is a matter of in- dubitable certainty with me, that, if I had kept my seat in parliament, most of the unpleasant predicaments in which I have been involved since that time would have been avoided. I was disposed to application in the political line, and was possessed of that ready faculty of speech which would have enabled me to make some little figure in the senate. I should have had employment; my passions would have been influenced by a proper animating object, and my vanity would have been sufficiently satisfied. During the short time I sat in parlia- ment, I found myself in the situation I have described; I was pleased with the character: I availed myself of its privileges Vv'hile I pos sessed them; 1 mingled in public debate, and received the most flattering testimonies of ap- plause. If this scene had continued, it would have been very fortunate for myself, and have saved my friends great anxiety and many alarms; you, among the rest, would have been spared the pain of much unavailing counsel and disregarded admonition. You know me well enough to be certaia that I must have a particular and not a common object to employ my attention; it must be an object which inspires desire, calls forth ac- tivity, keeps hope upon the stretch, and has some sort of high colouring about it. Power and popular reputation are of this kind, and would greatly have engrossed my thoughts and wishes; they would have kept under the baser passions ; I should have governed them at least; and my slavery, if I was destined to be H slave, would have been more honourable. But, losing a situation so suitable to me, I fell back a prey to that influence which had ivlready proved so fatal, and yielded myself a victim to an habitual dissoluteness which formed my only pleasure. I do not mean to write a disrespectful thought on my father; I would not off"end you by doing it; but, surely, his ignorance of man- kind is beyond all conception. It is hardly cre^ 37 dible that a man of his understanding and knowledge, whose Ufe has been ever in the world, and the most polished societies of it, who writes well and ably on its manners, be so childish in its concerns as to deserve the coral that amused, and the go-cart that sus- tained, him sixty years ago. I write in confi- dence; and you know what I assert to be true. Indeed, I might go further, and trace the errors of my own life from the want of that kind of paternal discernment which sees into the character of his child, watches over its growing dispositions, gently moulds them to I his will, and completes the whole by placing I him in a situation suitable to him. I have been the victim of vanity ; and the sacrifice of me was begun before I could form a judgment of the passion. You will, proba- blj', understand me ; but, if there should be the least gloom in my allusions, I will, with j your leave, explain the matter more clearly in ' some future letter. There is a great deal of difference between a good man and a good father; I have known bad men who excelled my father as much in parental care as he was j superior to them in real virtue. — But more of this hereafter. In the mean time, and at all ! limes, I am, &c. LETTER X. You have, certainly, given yourself very un- justifiable airs upon my subject; neither your talents, knowledge, figure, courage, or virtue, afford you the shadow of that superiority over me, which I understand you affect to maintain. However imprudent or bad my conduct may have been, whatever vices I may unfortunately possess, be assured I do not envy you your snivelling virtues, which are W'orse than the worst vices, and give an example of meanness and hypocrisy in the extreme. — Your letter is a farrago of them both; and since the receipt of it I despise you more than ever. What, Sir! has my father got a cough, or does he look thinner than usual, and read his bible?— There must be some certain symptom of his decay and dissolution that could induce you to address yourself so kindly to one, who, to use your own expression, is, as he ought to be, abandoned by his family. You have dream- ed of an hatchment upon house, and seen a visionary coronet suspended over my brow. You are a simpleton and a parasite to let such weak reasons guide you to wag your tail and play the spaniel, and renew your offers to fetch and carry. Be assured, for your comfort, that if ever you and I have any future inter- S9 course together, it will be upon such terms, or worse. I have heard it said, and I believe it to be true, that you pretend to lament your poor — — 's fate, and, with a more than rueful visage, prognosticate the breaking of his heart from the wicked life of his graceless son. Now, I will tell you a secret, that, supposing such a canting prophecy should take place to-mor- row, you would be the first to flatter the parricide. 1 consider you with a mixture of scorn and pity, when I see you so continually hampered in difficulties from your regard to the present and future lord; though you order your matters tolerably well; for there is not one of our family to whom your hypocritical canting will not ansv/er in some measure, but to myself. I know you, and I declare you to be incapable of any love or affection to any one, even to a mother or a sister. You know what I mean; but to quit an idea abhorrent to human nature, let me entreat you, if it is in your power, to act with candour, and, if you must speak of me, tell your sentiments openly, and not with those covert looks and affected shrugs, which convey so much more than meets the ear; and be so good, I pray you, as to raise your merit upon your own mighty fstock of virtues, and not upon my vices. The 40 world will one day judge between us, and I must desire you to be content with the ac- knowledged superiority you will receive from the arbitration in your favour. Oh, sultum nlmis est, cum tu pravissima tentes, Alterius censor ut vitiosa notes! I have not yet sung a requium to my own honour; and, though you and some others of my good friends may have chaunted a dirge over the grave you have yourselves dug for it, it does not rest, however, without the hopes of a joyful and speedy resurrection. To have done \\\\.h you for the present, 1 have only to desire you to be an open enemy to me, or a real friend, if you are capable of either; the halting between two opinions on the matter is both disgraceful and contemptible. Be assured that I give you these counsels more for your own sake than for that of Your humble Servant, &c. LETTER XI. JIT BEAIl SIR, You wish that I should explain myself at large with respect to that vanity vihich I ac- cuse of having been the cause of every incon= 41 I'enience and misdoing of my past life, to which [ owe the disagreeable circumstances of my present situation, and shall be indebted proba. jly, for some future events which, I fear, are n store for me. You will, I believe, agree with me that vanity s the foible of my family; every individual has I share of it for himself and for the rest; they ire all equally vain of themselves, and of one mother. It is not, however, an unamiable v'anity; it makes them happy, though it may {ometimes render them ridiculous; and it never lid an injury to any one but to me. I have 2very reason to load it with execration, and :o curse the hour when this passion was con- centrated to myself. Being the only boy and hopes of the family, jnd having such an hereditary and collateral ?ig]it to genius, talents, and virtue, (for this kvas the language held by certain persons at :hat time,) my earliest prattle was the subject of continual admiration; as I increased in years, [ was encouraged in boldness, which partial fancy called manly confidence; while sallies of impertinence, for which I should have been scourged, were fondly considered as marks of m astonishing prematurity of abilities. As it happened, Nature had not been a niggard to me ; it is true she has given me talents, but accompanied them with dispositions which d^* manded no common repressure and restraint, instead of Hberty and encouragement; but this vanity hath blinded the eyes, not only of my relations, but also of their intimate connec- tions; and, I suppose, such a hot-bed of flattery was never before used to spoil a mind, and to ■choak it with bad qualities, as was applied to mine. The late Lord Bath, Mrs — — , and many others, have been guilty of administering fuel to the flame, and joined in the family in- cense to such an idol as myself. Thus was I nursed into a very early state of audacity; and being able, almost at all times, to get the laugh against a father, or an uncle, &c. I was not backward in giving such impertinent specimens of my ability. This is the history of that impudence which has been my bane, gave to my excesses such peculiar accompani- ments, and caused those, who would not have hesitated to commit the offence, loudly to con* demn the mode of its commission in me. When I drew towards manhood, it will be sufficient to say, that I began to have some glimmering of the fami!y weakness; however, 1 was still young; dependence was a considera- ble restraint^ and I had not acquired that subse- quent knowledge of the world which changed my notions of paternal authority. I was there- 43 Tore without much difficulty, brought to con- sent to the design of giving solidity to my character, and preserving me from public 2ontagion, by marriage. A rich and amiable y^oung lady was cliosen to the happy and ho- nourable task of securing so much virtue as loiine, to correct the natural exuberance of youthful inexperience, and to shape me into that perfection of character which was to verify the dreams of my visionary relations. I must own that the lady was both amiable and handsome, but cold as an anchorite,- and, (though formed to be the best wife in the world to a good husband, was by no means calculated to reclaim a bad one. But, to complete the sensible and well-digested plan, in which so many wise heads were concerned, it was de- termined for me to make the tour of Europe previous to my marriage, in order to perfec- tionale my matrimonial qualifications; and the lovely idea of the fair maid I left behind was presented to me, as possessing a talismanic power to preserve me from seduction. But this was not all; for the better enabling me to make a proper and becoming appearance, or, in other words, to give me every means of gratification, the family purse was lavishly held forth ; I was left almost without controul in point of expense, and every method pursued to make me return the very reverse of what 44 expectation had painted me. — ^You know asj well as myself what happened during my tra-i vels, as well as after my return ; and 1 trust that you will impute my misconduct, in part i at least, to its primary cause. In this short sketch of the matter, which consists rather of hints than descriptions, you will see the drift of my reasoning, and know how to apply it to a thousand circumstances in your remembrance. You were present at my being received into the arms of my family with a degree of warmth, delight, and triumph, which the brightest virtue could alone have deserved; and you recollect the cause of all tliis rapturous forgiveness, which, I believe, penitence itself would not, at that time, have effected; it was my having made a speech in parliament, flowery indeed, and bold, but very little to the purpose; and at a time when, as I was certain that I should lose my seat, it would have been prudent in me to have remained silent; however, Mr. Ellis thought proper to compliment me upon the occasion, and to ob- serve that I spoke with hereditary abilities} and this circumstance instantly occasioned th^ short-lived family truce that succeeded. That my relations may have cause to com- plain of me, I do not deny; but this confession is accompanied with an opinion, in which I doubt not of your acquiescence, that I, on my u Slide also, have no small cause of complaint; iud, however biack the colour of my future * ife may be, I shall ever consider that the dusky ; scenes of it are occasioned by the vanity of my amily., and not by any obdurate or inflexible iiispositions inherent in my own character. I am, with great regard, Yours, Sec. LETTER XII. ly^ DEAR — , If you had been at all explicit with me about jhe Arabian courser^ he should most certainly nave been at your service. Notwithstanding he '.Vas the gift of Byme?i, to whom I have so few obligations, the animal was a favourite, and I wrought him to the continent with me, where l:ie was very troublesome, and very useless. — But he troubles me no more; and a little ridi- culous event, which happened a few weeks igo, made me hate and detest him. If there lad been any laughers, the laugh would have Deen very much against me on the occasion; js it was, I felt and looked so foohsh, that I never afterwards could turn a favourable eye iiponthe beast that v/as the cause of my mor- tification. I shall not give you an sccount of this little 46 history; for, as I am tlie principal hero of it, II shall not tell it well; so I resign the task to' P . When you see him, therefore, question' him upon the subject, and he will do it justice. He is a most lively, good humoured, and plea- sant man, who bears the ills of life as if they were blessings, and seems to take the rough and the smooth with an equal countenance. This sort of unbended philosophy is the best gift that Nature can bestow on her children; it lightens the burden of care, and turns every sable and ghastly hue of melancholy to bright and splendid colours. There is no one T envy so much as I do P ; a cap and bells is a crown to him; a tune upon a flageolet is a con- cert; if the sun shines, he sports himself in its beams; if the storm comes he skips gaily along; and when he is wet to the skin, it only serves to make out a pleasant story while he is drying himself at the fire. — If you are dull after din- ner, he will get up and rehearse half a dozen scenes out of a play, and do it well, and be as pleased with his performance as you can be. V/ith all these companionable talents, he is neitl)er forward, noisy, nor impertinent; but, on the contrary, very conversible, and pos- sesses as pleasant a kind of good breeding as any one 1 ever knew. His company has been a great relief to me. 4r find I recommend you to cultivate his ac- juaintance as an entertaining and agreeable :ompanion. You and I, my dear friend, are ; lifferently, and I mtist add, less happi ly framed. ,iVe are hurried about by every gust and jvhirlvvind of passion; and though Hope does rhrow a paler gilding upon our disappoint- ;nents, Fiar never fails to interrupt our plea- Mures. — I would give more than half of what I 1 hall ever be worth to be blessed with a (Qoiety of P 's temper and disposition. J I am, 8cc. LETTER XIII. Jit dear fhiend, i I BEG your pardon, and plead guilty to the 3 rime laid to my charge! The dialogues which i'ou have seen were written by me, on hints ^fiven me by an infidel Frenchman at Turin* J, 'hat it was a folly, to say no worse, to amuse ,,iyself with such compositions, I readily ac- .nowledge; nor am 1 less disposed to own that ; was the weakest of all vanities to disperse * These dialogues are too irreverent and Wrofane to justify a publicalion, Tlie per- ;onages of the first are the Samoiir of the World and Socrates; and of the second King ')aviU and Ccesar Borgia. 4S any copies of them. Your suspicion of their having been coinposed, in an evil hour, as a ridicule uponthose which have been pubhshed by my father, is a natural one; but, believe me, it is not founded in fact. Bad as they may be, they were not writ for so bad a purpose; and, if I had considered the possibility of such an- idea becoming prevalent, they would never have been exposed to any inspection, I wrote ihem originally in French, and never, to my recollection, gave them an English dress, but when I read them accidentally to some one who did not understand the former language. I was flattered into the suffering of some copies to be taken by the declaration of a re- spectable literary company, that they were superior to Voltaire's tragedy of Saul; and these copies must have been greatly multi- plied to have made it possible that one of them should have reached you. 1 am very sorry for it; for you have already more than sufficient reason to fill your letters to me with re- proaches; and I curse the chance that has thrown another motive in your way to con- tinue a train so disagreeable to us both. It is true that my father is a Christian; and has given an ample testimony of his faith to the world by his writings ; but it was long af- ter he attained to my age that he became a 49 convert to that system which he has defended. It is painful to me, and hardly fair in you, to occasion our being brought together in the same period; it takes from me the means of justification where I could use them, and of jpalliation wliere a complete defence might not be practicable. — As to my Right Reverend uncle, I shall consider him with less ceremony. He also may be a good Christian; but I re- collect to have heard him make a better dis- course upon the outside ornaments of an old jGothic pulpit, I think it was at Wolverhampton, than he ever delivered in one, throughout the Whole course of his evangelical labours. He seems much more at home in a little harangue I on some doubtful remnant of a Saxon tombstone j than in urging the performance of Christian 'duties, or guarding, with his lay brother, the Christian fortress againstinfidel invasion. I well ' remember also to have heard his Right Reve- 1 rence declare, that lie would willingly give one of his fingers, (that was his expression) to have a good natural history of JVorcestershive. What jholy ardour he may possess as an antiquarian i I cannot tell; but, in my conscience, I think he would make a sorry figure as a Christian ^ martyr J and that a zeal for our holy religion j would not inflame him to risk the losing of a 50 I repeat to you, upon my honour, that I did not wish these jeux d'esprit should have gone beyond the limits I had prescribed for them. The very few persons to whom I gave them were bound, by a very solemn promise, not to circulate their contents, or to name their au- thor. If they have forfeited their word, I am sorry for it ; but the failure of their engage- ment cannot be imputed to me, and the se-. verest judge would not think me guilty of more than chance -Tnedley on the occasion. In your breast, I hope there is a complete and full acquittal for Your most sincere and obfiged, &c- LETTER XIV. :^T DIAR — , I CANNOT bring it within the compass of my belief, that II has escaped your recollec- tion; however, I shall be able to restore it to its proper tone in a moment, by mentioning an ©de addressed by him to me on the subject of gaming. You admired it too much to have forgot tiie author; and it now occurs to me, that you, or some one in the company, re- hearsed ou the occasion a long strain of laugha- ble Eton and Oxford anecdutes concerning fum; nay, the VQvy last time we were together, 51 you sarcastically repeated to me some of his vaticinations on my impetuous attacliment to play, and kindly foretold the completion of them. After all, I believe you are either laugh- ing- at me, or pretending- ignorance of my bard, in order to have an hash of the same dish which you are pleased to say delighted you so much in my last letter. Was it not you, or do I dream — who was so charmed with that part of his poem where he describes my being so reduced by gaming as to be obliged to sell H , and supposes the estate to be bought by the descendant of some felon, who was reprieved from death to transportation by my ancestor the Judge, whose picture he tears down from the wall, as a sight disgusting to him ? I am not certain as to the correctness of my recollection, but the lines are, I believe, to- the following effect — Shall some unfeeling stranger reign "Within that blest domain ? Some convict's spawn, by thy forefather's breath, Penhance, i-epriev'd from death? Whilst thou, self-bauish'd, self-enslav'd, shalt roam, Without a friend or home! Still shall he tremble at the Judge's frowna, 1 And fraught \vith spite, tear down, 1 From the repining Mall, his venerable shade, &c. It is a composition of great merit; and, if he was so fortunate as to possess a sense of har- 52 mony, he would almost put an end to the pre- sent vacation of poetry and poets. His thoughts are original, bold and nervous; his images apt, lively, and beautiful; his language is never peurile, but sometimes low and sometimes inflated. If his taste was improved and he had an ear for versification, which I think he has not, his compositions would be delightful, and, as I have already observed place him in in the first rank of modern poets. P~— — — s, I believe, sometimes visits him, and will most wiUingly present you a Monsieur and Madame, if you make known your wishes to him — A letter from me would shut his door against you; my former favour was never equal to my present disgrace; ajidif you wish to be well in that quarter, you must not acknowledge the least regard for me. Indeed you would do well never to mention the name of Your affectionate, 8cc. LETTER XV. And I awoke, and behold I was a Lord! — It was no unpleasant transition, you will rea- dily believe, from infernal dreams and an un- easy pillow, from insignificance and derelic- tion, to be a peer of Great Britain, ^Yith all the 5-3 privileges attendant upon that character, and some little estate into the bargain. My sensa- tions are very different from any I have ex- perienced for some time past. My conse- quence both internal and external, is already greatly elevated; and the emfiresscment of the people about me is so suddenly increased as to be ridiculous. By heavens! my dear , we are a very contemptible set of beings — and so on. Without meaning any thing so detestable as a pun, I shall certainly lord it over a few of those who have looked disdain at me. My coronet shall glitter scorn at them, and insult their low souls to the extreme of mortification. I have received a letter from , that dirty parasite, full of condolence and congratulation, with a my iordin every line, andj'oz/r lordship in ever}' period. I will make the rascal lick the dust ; and, when he has flattered me till his tongue is parched with lies, I will upbraid him with his treason, and turn my back upon him for ever. There are a score of bugs, or more, of the same character, whom the beams of my prosperity will warm into servility, and whose names will be left at my door before I have been ten days in town; but may eternal igno« miny overtake me, if I do not make the ten- derest vein in their hearts ache with mv re» 54 pi'oach! Whether the world will be converted into respect towards me, I do not pretend to determine; its anger will, at all events, be softened ; but, be that as it may, I can look it in the face with less fear than I was wont to do, and make it smile upon my political career, though it may still hold a frowning aspect towards my moral character. Permit me, however, to assure you, that whatever changes may appear in me towards others, I shall ever be the same to you. The acquisition of fortune, and an elevation to honours, will not vary a hne in my regard to those whose friendship has been so faithful to me as yours has been; nor shall you ever have cause to repent of your assiduous kindness to me. There is a balance in the human passions; and the mind that is awake to a spirit of re- venge, is equally inspired by the sentiments of gratitude. There is a dirty crew who shall experience the former, while you may confide in my solemn assurance to you of a most ample exertion of the latter. A proposf I must beg of you to forward the enclosed letter to -: — . With much difficulty I persuaded her, some time ago, to return to England; and I am apprehensive she may be already in town, expecting my arrival. If it be possiblcj contrive some means to free me from ler persecutions, both for her sake and my 3wn, Should she be come to London, you ;vill know where to find her; make any pro- mises you may think necessary in my name, jnd use every reason your imagination can ijuggest to persuade lier to return into the country. — You understand me. and are gone from hence this morning, to indulge their fancies in the busi- (less of cold iron, and powder and ball. I was I'ery near being hampered in the affair; but my sable suit and funeral duties excused me from the employment, and I suppose the first news [ shall hear of the event vvill be in England, where I hope sliortly to see and embrace you. In the mean time, believe me Most sincerely youcs, &c. LETTER XVI. MT DEAR FUIEXD, Your letter reached me with a large packet of others which my father's death had occa. sioned. Hov/ altered is the language of them upon the occasion! Yours, indeed, is exactly the same, or, if any thing, bears the tincture of more than usual severity. Flattery is a strain altogether new to me, and by the two last posts I have had enough to surfeit thfe 56 most arrant coquette upon earth. It is true I cannot compliment your letter with possessing an atom of adulation; nevertheless, it is the only one which has given me real pleasure, because it is the only one which bears the cha- racters of real friendship. Though I have acted in such a direct opposition to your cautions and remonstrances, I am not the less sensible to that generous passion which produced them, and has now taken the first opportunity to give me the essence, as it were, of all jour former counsels, in thus calling my attention to real and permanent honour. However I may offend you hereafter, you shall never again have cause to reproach me with a forfeiture of my word. T have, at present, lost that con- fidence in myself, which would justify me in offering assurances to you; the hopes of re- gaining it, hov/ever, are not entirely vanished, and when they are falfilled, which, I trust, they will one day be, you shall receive the first fruits of my renovation. I understand the purpose of your observa- tion, that the generality of men employ the first part of life in making the remainder of it miserable. I feel its force, and consider it as an indirect caution to me not to pursue a con- duct which must be attended with such a lamentable consequence. But, alas! credula irba sumus; tlioug'h t have paid clearly for my credulity, unless it should be immediately fol- lowed by the fruits of an wholesome experi- ence. We despise the world when we know it thoroughly; but we give ourselves up to it before we know it, and tiie heurt is frequently lost before it is illuminated by the irradiations of reason, ' I have now succeeded to the possession of those privileges which are a part, and perhaps the best part, of my inheritance. Clouds and darkness no longer rest upon me. My exterior of things is totally changed; and, however un- moved some men's minds may be by outward circumstances, mine is not composed of such cold materials as to be unaffected by them. Such an active spirit as animates ray frame, I must have objects important in their nature, j inviting in their appearance, and animating in their pursuit. No longer forced to drown the Isensibihty to public disgrace and private in- convenience in Circean draughts, my cha- racter, I trust, will unfold qualities which it has not been thought to possess, and finally 1 dissipate the kind apprehensions of friendship. j My natural genius will now have a full scope jfor exertion in the line of political duty; and 1 Jam disposed to flatter myself, that the appli- I cation necessary to make a respectable figure in that career, v»lil leave me but little time for C2 58 those miserable pursuits, which of late have been my only resource. But I must desire you not to expect an instant conversion; the era of miracles is passed, and, besides, the world would suspect its sincerity. It is true, I am sinner sufficient to call down the interposition of Heaven, but the present age has no claim to such celestial notices. My amendment must be slow and progressive, though, I trust, in the end, sincere and effectual. But be assured, that, however the completion of your good wishes for me may be deferred, 1 am perfectly sensible that there is something necessary be- sides title, rank, and fortune, to constitute true honour. — With this sentiment I take my leave of you, and am, with real truth, Yours, &c. LETTER XVII. 7-lY DEAR — — , I AM at an inn, and alone; and, if you were to guess for ten years, and had one of Osbonie''s catalogues to assist you, sure I am that you would not divine the book which has amused my evening, and given a subject to this letterj nay, I may venture to tell you it is poetical, and still bid defiance to your penetration. My two travelling volumes had been read twice in the course of my journey, and, as it 59 vvould not be worth the trouble to unpack a trunk for more, I desired the waiter to ask his mistress to send me a book; and in the interim [ amused myself with fancying what kind of publication would be brought me, resolving, however, if it should be the Pilgrim^ s Progress, the Whole Duty of Man, or even the Holy Bible, to make it the subject of my evening's kicubrations. The waiter returned, and desired to know if I chose prose or verse. This I thought looked well, and my preference being declared for the latter, I was, in a few minutes, presented with a small volume, which I found to be a Presbyterian hymn book, entitled Horce Lyricoe, by a Dr. Watts. My expectations were a little chagrined upon the occasion; how- ever, I turned over a few pages, looking curso- rily at the contents in my way, when T dropped upon a little odd composition, the subject of which was no less singular than applicable to myself. The title of it was Feto Happy Matches, From the character of the author, who was a dissenting minister, I had conceived that the reasons of matrimonial infelicity would be trite, whining and scriptural, and that I should ftnd some bouncing anathemas against such olTenders as your humble servant; but it turned out quite otherwise; the idea is a fanciful one; and I dave affirm, that, if Jpolh and the Nine 60 Muses had racked their brains for a twelve- month, they could not have hit upon such a conceit. The poet supposes that human souls come forth in pairs of male and female from the hands of the Creator, who gives them to the winds of Heaven to bear them to our lower world, where, if they arrive safe and meet again, they instinctively impel the bodies Ihey animate towards each other, so as to produce an hymeneal union, which, being originally designed by their author, must be necessarily happy; but, as from the length of the way, and the many storms, Sec. that check and come across it, they are generally separated before they reach their destination, their re-union is very rare; and the forming an alliance with any other but the original counterpart, being, as it were, an extraneous connexion, must be ne- cessarily miserable, and will produce those jarrings and contentions which so generally disturb matrimonial life. — This ingenious fancy will make you smile; nor would the ideas which occur to me on the subject re-brace j^our muscles, if I had paper or time to bear me out in them. They must serve for another oppor- tunity. Thus, according to my good Dr. Watts, matches are made in heaven, but marriages on 61 earth. I should think some of them have been I i fabricated in * • # » * * but no more of that. I really feel myself much indebted to this I Pindaric presbytei'ian for setting my conscience at rest, which now and then had a momentary qualm on a certain subject. The unlucky counterpart, which accompanied my soul from Heaven's gates, was tossed in some whirlwind, driven by some lightning, or detained by some I aerial frost, and, at length, I suppose, cast ashore among the antipodes. We are not destined, I believe, to meet again; and I fear poor soul! if I may judge from myself, that her lot is a very lamentable one, wherever it may I be. After all that sentimental talkers and senti- mental writers may produce upon the subject, marriage must be considered as a species of traffick, and as much a matter of commerce as any commodity that fills the warehouse of the merchant. We exchange passion for passion, beauty, titles, &c. for money, youth for age, and so on. The business may sometimes answer; but there are few examples, I fear, when the profit and loss come to be stated. 62 where the balance is considerable in favour of the former. Who, says the Spanish proverb, has ever seen a marriage without fraud, if beauty be a part of the portion? This idea will hold good in every other instance, and cor- roborates my principle of its being a matter of trade, which has its foundation in fraud and tricking. One marries for connexions, another for wealth, a third from lust, a fourth to have an heir, to oblige his parents, and so on. Every one of your married friends will come under these or similar de- scriptions, except Lord C— — , vi^ho married his lady^ as he buys his buckles, because she was the Ton; and I doubt not but he was com- pletely miserable, that he could not change her, as he does his buckles, for the fashion of the next spring, or perhaps, the next month. Plato was at a loss under what class to rank women, whether among brutes or rational creatures; Dr. Watts^s ideas are fur more favourable to the sex, for he has not hesitated to give them celestial natures. I must acknow- ledge that I have my doubts upon the subject. Mahometanism has, certainly some fine points about it; give him wine, and a Turk's life is not a bad one onCo So good night to ^-ou!— — =■ LETTER XVIII. Youn string of modern wits is not worth a beadsman's rosary. The era of wit is passed. — There are not half a score of men in the king- dom who deserve that title; and the rising world give no hopes of its restoration. The tree that bears such fruit is blasted. Do me the favour; I beseech you, to distinguish between a man of wit, and one who makes you laugh. The repetition of an old tale, a grimace, a blunder, the act of laughter in another, or even a serious look, may cause the muscular con- vulsion ; but wit is not levelled so much at the muscles as at the heart, and the latter will sometimes smile when there is not a single wrinkle upon the cheek. How it could ever enter into your head to think Chase Price a wit, puzzles and perplexes me. He has no more pretensions to it than he has to grace. He is a good humoured jolly buffoon, that writes a bawdy song, and sings it; says things that no- body but himself would choose to say; and does things that nobody besides would choose to do. Believe me, that Chase'sybrf is politics; not pubhc, but private politics; the science of which he understands better, and practises with more success, than any man in Great Britain. He is never without a point in view. 64 or a gwme to play; and he never sings a song-, or tells a smutty tale, without some design. Mere amusement to himself or others is not Mr. Price's plan; his humour has been a good fortune to him; and he will contrive I doubt not, to make it last as long as himself. Do you think, when Bolingbroke, Swift, Arbtithnat, Pope, &c. he. were assembled together, that the conversation of such a bright constellation of men was like the ribaldry of Mr. Price? Their wit did not consist in roaring a bawdy catcli, &c.; it was " the feast of reason, and the flow of soul." The flashes of imagination adorned and gave brilliance to the high dis- course; wisdom was enlivened, and not wounded, by their wit; and, among them, the herd of laughter-loving fools would not have found a single grin to console them. — If I were to sing one of Mr. Price's ballads, or to repeat one of his stories, you would receive, I fear, but little pleasure from the exhibition, because I could not give them the accompaniments of jioise and grimace which form their principal merit; and, perhaps, besides my deficiency in acting my part, I might produce the enter- tainment an hour too soon. But wit may be repeated by any one at any time, and, I be- lieve, in almost any language, with satisfaction and success; time may drown it in oblivion. 65 membered it will please ; while the facetious exhibitions of a boon companion will scarce survive his funeral. — But to proceed in youp ' catalogue. Lord C — e's wit, as^'ell as that of his friend, lies in his heels, and is so powerfully exerted I in producing entre-SthtSy as to be languid to every other purpose. A few school-boy rhymes confer not the laurel of wit; and it was a great proof of an opposite character in this noble- man, to give his compositions to the world. He may understand French and Italian, and, per- : haps, speak both those languages tolerably well; it is probable, also, that he may not have I forgot every thing he learned at school; but I indeed, indeed, my friend, he is no wit. I Charles Fox is highly gifted; his talents are j of a very superior nature; and, in my opinion, i^/>2/'a^nc,J is scarcely behind him; in the article of colloc^uial merit, he is, at least, his equal; but they neither of them possess that attic character, which, while it corrects, gives strength to imagination; and, while it governs, gives dignity to wit. The late Earl of Bath, and'iVrr. Charles Toxvnshendy were blessed v.-ith no inconsiderable share of it; and it is an in- temperate vivacity of genius which confounds it in Mr, Edmund Burke. But the man who is 66 in the most perfect possession of it, has figured in so high a hne of public life, as to prevent the attention of mankind from leaving his greater qualities to consider his private and domestic character — I mean Lord Chatham^ whose familiar conversation is only to be ex- celled by his public eloquence. Perhaps, Lord Mansfield was born|pf I may use tlie ex- pression, with every attic disposition ; but the shackles of a law education and profession, and some other circumstances which I need not mention, have formalized, and, in some degree, repressed the brilliance of his genius. With respect to this great man, I cannot but pathetically apostrophize with Pope, How sweet an Ovid was in Murray lost. George Selnayn is very superior to Chase Price, but very inferior to Charles Toivnshend, against whom, however, he used, as I am told, continually to get the laugh ; but this proves nothing; for good-humoured George Bodens would have gained the prize from them both in the article of creating laughter. I may be wrong, perhaps, but it has ever appeared to jne, that Islv. Sehvyn's faculty of repartee is mechanical, and arises more from habit than from genius. It would be a miserable business indeed, if a man, who had been playing upon er words for so many years, should not have attained the faculty of commanding them at !iis pleasure. B converses with elegance; L — — n is in excellent critic; and many others of the same class may be found, who are well qualified :o be members of a literary club, but no farther. ^Garrick is himself upon the stage, and an act07- everywhere else, i^oofe is a mimic every where; sxcellent, delightful, on the theatre and in Drivate society — but still a mimic. No one can ake more pains than Mrs. M to be iurrounded with men of wit; she bribes, she pensions, she flatters, gives excellent dinners, s herself a very sensible woman, and of very uleasing manners; not young, indeed, but that is out of the question; and, in spite of all these j encouragements, which, one would think, ! night make wits spring out of the ground, the jonversations of her house are too often criti- cal and pedantic, something between the dul« 'less and the pertness of learning. They are l)erfect]y chaste, and generally instructive; but k cool and quiet observer would sometimes !augh to see how difficult a matter it is for la \tlle presidente to give colour and life to her jiterary circles. It surprises me that you should 5ave Windham out of your list, who (observe Jiy prophecy) will become one of the ablest aien and shining characters that the latter 68 part of this age will produce. I hazard little in such a presentiment, for his talents, judgment, and atiainmeiits, will verify it. The gibes and jests, that are wont to set the table in a roi»r, promote the cheerful pur- poses of convivial society, but they have nothing to do with thai attic conversation which is the highest enjoyment of the human intellect. Wit, believe, me, is almost extinct; and I will tell you, among other reasons, why I think SO; — because no one seems to have any idea of what wit is, or who deserves the title of it. — To think little, talk of every thing, and doubt of nothing; to use only the external parts of the soul, and cultivate the surface, as it were, of the judgment; to be happy in ex- pression, to have an agreeable fancy, an easy and refined conversation, and to be able to please without acquiring esteem; to be born with the equivocal talent of a ready appre- hension, and on that account, to think one's self above reflection; to fly from object to object, without gaining a perfect knowledge of any; to gather hastily all the flowers, and never allow the fruit to arrive at maturity; all tliese, collected together, form a faint picture, i of what the generality of people, in this age, are pleased to honour with the name of wit. You must not be angry with me for this long^ klter, but rather be thankful that it is so short. 69 considering the subject you threw before me, and the desire I have to set you a thinking on a subject of which you seem to have formed very wrong notions. I again repeat, that true wit is expiring, and great talents also. My words are prophetic, and a few years will de- i termine the matter. It would not be a diffi- ! culty to prove the why and the wherefore; but of all subjects, these half metaphysical ones are the most unpleasant to Yours, &c. ! ^ LETTER XIX. MY DEAR — — , Without any violent exertions of my natu- ral vanity, I can easily imagine that the eye of mankind looks towards my political career; and that for want of a better subject, tliere may be some among them who amuse them- selves with forming conjectures concerning it. The ministry have attempted to feel my pulse upon the occasion, but without success, though I will tell you in confidence, that they have nothing, at present, to fear from me. In the great subject of this -day's politics, which seems to engulf every other, I am with them. I shall never cease to contend for the uni- versality and unity of the British empire over To all Its territories and dependencies, in every part of the globe. I have not a doubt of the legislative supremacy of parliament over every part of the British dominions in America, the Ilast and West Indies, in Ajrica, and over Ireland itself. 1 cannot separate the idea of legislation and taxation; they seem to be more than twins; they were not only born but must co-exist and die together. The question of right is heard of no more; it is now become a questiom of power; and it appears to me that the sword will de- termine the contest. The colonies pretend to be subject to the king alone; they deny subor- dination to the state, and, upon this principle, have not only declared against the authority of parliament, but erected a government of their own, independent of British legislation. To support a disobedience to rights which they once acknowledged, they have already formed associations, armed and arrayed them- selves, and are preparing to bring the questien to the issue of battle. This being the case, it becomes highly necessary for us to arm also; we must prepare to quench the evil in its infancy, and to extinguish a e which the natural enemies of England v lot fail to feed with unremitting fuel, in ori^er to consume our commerce, and tarnish our glory. If wis^ X n measures are taken, this business will be soon completed, to the honour of the mother coun- try, and the welfare of the colonies; who, in spite of all the assistance given them by the House of Bourbon, must, unless our govern- ment acts Uke an ideot, be forced to submision. For my own part, I have not that high opinion of their Roman spirit, as to suppose, that it will influence them contentedly to sub- mit to all the horrors of war, to resign every comfort in which they have been bred, to re- linquish every hope with which they have been flattered, and retire to the howling wilderness for an habitation; and all for a dream of liberty, which, were they to possess to- morrow, would not give them a privilege supe- rior to those which they lately enjoyed ; and might, 1 fear, deprive them of many which they experienced beneath the clement legis- lation of the British government. 1 do not mean to enter at large into the sub- ject, but, if ministers know what they are about, the matter may be soon decided; and in every measure which tends to promote such a desirable end, they shall receive all the poor heips I can ^ > them; I will neither sit silent, nor .;'emain ii, sj^'e. But if, by neglect, igno- ranee, or an -ttdecisive spirit, the latter of w.hich .^ rather ;-spect from them: should they '/2 let the monster grow up into size and strength, my support shall be changed into opposition, and all my powers exerted to remove men from a station to which they are unequal. — Re- member this assertion — preserve this lettet — and let it appear in judgment against me, if I err from my present declaration. I remain yours, Sec. LETTER XX. It was very natural, in such a Strephon as you are, to imagine that I had hurried away to court the nymphs ; I mean the wood-nymphs of H- . Now, I have so Httle thought about, or regard for these ladies, that I had, at one time, determined to despoil their shade^ and make a profitable use of the oaks which shelter them. You will shriek at the idea like any Hamadryad ; but, in spite of shrieks or en- treaties, I had it in contemplation to be patri- otic, and give the groves of H to the service of my country. The system of modern gardening in spite of f fashion and Mr. JBroiuny is a very foolish one* \ The huddling together every species of building into a park or garden is ridiculous. The environs of a magnificent house sihould partake, in some degree, of the nece'^sary for- mality of the building they surround. This was Kent's opinion; and, where his designs have escaped the destruction of modern re- finement, there is an easy grandeur, which is at once striking and delightful. Fine woods are beautiful objects, and their beauty ap- proaches nearer to magnificence, as the mass of foliage becomes more visible; but to dot them with little white edifices, infringes upon their greatness, and, by such divisions and sub- divisions, destroys their due effect. The ver- dure of British swells was not made for Grecian temples; a flock of sheep, and a shepherd's I hut, are better adapted to it. Our climate is ^ not suited to the deities of Italy and Greece, and in an hard winter I feel for the shuddering divinities. At H there is a Temple of Theseus, commonly called by the gardener, the Temple of Perseus, which stares you in the face wherever you go, while the Temple of I God, commonly called by the gardener, the Parish Church, is so industriously hid by the trees from without, that the pious matron can hardly read her pi^ayer book within. This was an evident preference of strange gods, and, in ] my opinion, a very blasphemous improvement. Where Nature is grand, improve her grandeur- \ not by adding extraneous decorations, but by removing obstructions. Where a scene is 'm i D 74 itself lovely, very Utile is necessary to give it all due advantage, especially if it be laid into park, which undergoes no variety of cultiva- tion. Sto7v is, in my opinion, a most detestable place; and has in every part of it the air of a Golgotha; a princely one I must acknowledge; but in no part of it could I ever lose that gloomy idea. My own park possesses many and very rare beauties; but, from the design of making it classical, it has been charged with many false and unsuitable ornaments. A Classical park, or a classical garden, is as ridi- culous an expression as a classical pliimb pud- ding, or a classical sirloin of beef. It is an un- worthy action to strip the classics of their jieroes, gods, and goddesses, to grow green nmid the fogs of our unclassical climate. But the affectation and nonsense of little minds is beyond description. How many are there, who, fearful that mankind will not discover their knowledge, are continually hanging out the sign of hard words and pedantic expressions, like the late Lord Orrery, who, for some clas- sical reason, had given his dog a classical jiame; it was no less than Csesar! However, Caesar, one d.iy, giving his lordsliip a most un- ciijssicul bite, he bcized a cane, and pursued him round the room with great solemnity, and 75 this truly classical menace — "Ceesar! Caesar! if 1 could catch thee, Caesar! I would give thee as many wounds as Brutus gave thy name-sake in the Capitol." This is the very froth of folly and affectation. Adieu, &c. LETTER XXI. Mr DEAR sm, I OBEY your commands with some reluc- tance, in relating the story of which you have heard so much, and to which your curiosity appears to be so broad awake — I do it un- willingly, because such histories depend so much upon the manner in which they are re- lated; and this, which I have told with such success, and to the midnight terrors of so many simple souls, will make but a sorry figure in a written narration. However, you shall have it. It was in the early part of 's life that he attended a hunting club at their sport, when a stranger of a genteel appearance, and well mounted, joined the chace, and was observed to ride with a degree of courage and address that culled foi'th the utmost astonishment of every one present. — The beast he rode was of amazing powers; nothing stopped them; the hounds could never escape them; and the 76 iiunlsman, who was left far behind, swore that tlie man and his horse were devils J'rotn helt. When the sport was over, the company in- vited this extraordinary person to dinner; he accepted the invitation, and astonished the company as much by the powers of his con- conversation, and the elegance of his manner^, as by his equestrian prowess. He was an ora- tor, a poet, a painter, a musician, a lawyer, a divine; in short, he was every thing-, and the magic of his discourse kept the drowsy sports- men awake long after their usual hour. At length, however, wearied Nature could be charmed no more, and the company began to steal away by degrees to their repose. On his observing the society diminish, he discovered manifest signs of uneasiness; he therefore gave new force to his spirits, and new cliarms to his conversation, in order to detain the remaining few some time longer. This had some little effect; but the period could not be long de- layed when he was to be conducted to his chamber. The remains of the company retired also; but they had scarce closed their eyes, when the house was alarmed by the most terrible shrieks that were ever heard; several persons were awakened by the noise, but, its continuance being short, they concluded it to proceed from a dog who might be accidentally It confined in some part of the house; they very soon, therefore, composed themselves to sleep, and were very soon awakened by shrieks and cries of still greater terror than the former. Alarmed at what they heard, several of them rung their bells, and when the servants came, they declared that the horrid sounds pro- 1 ceeded from the stranger's chamber. Some of the gentlemen immediately arose, to inquire into this extraordinary disturbance; and while they were dressing themselves for that pur- pose, deeper groans of despair, and shriller shrieks of agony, again astonished and terrified them. After knocking some time at the j stranger's chamber-door, he answered them as one awakened from sleep, declared he had heard no noise, and, ^ather in an angry tone, \ desired he might nov be again disturbed. Upon this they returned to one of their chambers, and had scarce begun to communicate their sentiments to each other, when their conver- sation was interrupted by a renewal of yells, screams, and shrieks, which, from the horror of them, seemed to issue from the throats of damned and tortured spirits. They immedi- ately followed the sounds, and traced them to the stranger's chamber, the door of which they instantly burst open, and found him upon his knees in bed, in the act of scourging him- self with the most unrelenting severity, his 78 body streamiii,^ with blood. On their seizing his hand to stop the strokes, he begged them, in the most wringing tone of voice, as an act of mercy, that they would retire, assuring them that the cause of their disturbance was over, and that in the morning he would acquaint them with the reasons of the terrible cries they had heard, and the melancholy sight they saw. After a repetition of his entreaties, they re- tired; and in the morning some of them went to his chamber, but he was not there; and, on examining the bed, they found it to be one gore of blood. Upon further inquiry, the groom said, that, as soon as it was light, the gentleman came to the stable booted and spurred, desired his horse might be immedi- ately saddled, and appeared to be extremely impatient till it was done, when he vaulted in- stantly into his saddle, and rode out of the yard on full speed — Servants were immediately dispatched into every part of the surrounding country, but not a single trace of him could be found; such a person had not been seen by any one, nor has he been since heard of. The circumstances of this strange story were immediately committed to writing, and signed by every one who were witnesses to them, that the future credibility of any one, who should think proper to relate them, might be duly supported. Among the sub* 79 scribers to the trath of this history are some of the first names of this century. — It would now, I beUeve, be impertinent to add any- thing more, than that I am Yours, &c. LETTER XXII. 1 THANK you most sincerely, my very dear friend, for your obliging congratulations on my late promotion; and I have no better way to answer the friendly counsels which accom- pany them, but by opening my heart to you upon the occasion, and trusting its sentiments with you. You knew my father, and I am sure you will applaud me in declaring that his charac- ter did real honour to his rank and his nature. A grateful fame will wait upon his memory, till, by some new change in human affairs, the great and good men of this country and period shall be lost to the knowledge of distant gene- rations. In the republic of letters he rose to a very considerable eminence; his deep political erudition is universally acknowledged; and as a senator both of the lower and higher order, bis name is honoured with distinguished vene- ration. In his private, as well as public life, he was connected, and in friendship, with the so lir$t men of the times in which he lived; and as a character of strict virtue and true piety, he has been universally held forth as the most striking example of this age. The idea of un- common merit accompanies all opinion of him; and to mention his name is to awaken the most pleasing and amiable sentiments. As you read this short and imperfect outline of his charac- ter, fill it up and do it justice. Now it will, perhaps, surprise you, when you are informed, Ihat the post in government which this great and good man most desired, and could never obtain, was the Chief Justiceship in Eyre, &c. The reverse of the picture is as follows; that your humble servant, and his gracious son, "whose character you perfectly know, has been appointed to this very post, in the infancy of his peerage, without an^ previous service per- formed, hint given, or requisition made on his part, and without the proposition of, and con- ditions on, the part of the minister, — When I wa^ surprised by the ofier, I was surprised also by a sudden and unusual suffusion on my cheeks, at the contrast of mine and my father's character — of mine and my father's lot. Indeed, so big was my heart on the occasion, that when the ministerial ambassador had left me, the sentiments of it burst faitli upon the first person I saw, xvho happened not to be a very proper receptacle for the reflections of virtue. There is a very great encouragement in this world to be wicked; and the devil certainly goes aboat in more pleasing shapes than one of a roaring lion. In the name of fortune, my dear friend, how and why are these things? Is it the increasing corruption of the times, or the weakness of government, that gives to dissolute men the meed of virtue; or do minis- ters think it expedient to give a sop to the mastiff whose growl might make them tremble? You, who have made men and manners your study, who have looked so deeply into the volume of the heart, and have acquired such an happy art of reconciling the apparent in- ; consistencies of human affairs, must instruct i me. I wish you could improve and convert me! 1 am not insensible to what is good; nay, there I are moments when the full lustre of virtue \ beams upon me. I try to seize it; but the gleam escapes me, and I am re-involved in darkness. The conflict of reason and passion is but the conflict of a moment; and the latter never fails to bear me off in triumph. Video meliora proboque Deteriora sequor. I am yours most truly, Sec. D2 82 LETTER XXlIt. I WISH that the Morning Post, and every other post that scatters such malignant, false, and detestable histories, in the bottomless pit, with its writers, printers, editors, publishers, collectors, and purchasers. To be the subject of an occasional paragraph is not worth a frown. It is a tax which every one in high station must pay, be he good, or be he bad, to that demon of calumny, who now has a temple prepared for his service at every breakfast table in the metropolis. But to be the sole theme of a scandalous chronicle, and to see it not only saved from oblivion, but raised into universal notice and reception, from its abusive histories of me, is a circum- stance big with every pain and penalty of mortification. To add to my distress, no means of satisfaction or revenge are in my power? and, if resentment were to weave a scourge, and I could use it to my wishes, 1 should only give new materials to prolong the tale. The business of silent contempt is above me; and the mode of conduct you recommend is, like St. t^ustin^s reason for belief, quia impossible est. I cannot enter an house where the page of my dishonour does not lie upon the table. Every man who meets me in the street, tells 83 me by his very looks that he has read it. I have overheard my own servants observing upon it, and the very chairman can repeat its tales. I expect every day that my horse, like Balaam's ass, will neigh, scandal at me; not indeed from celestial, but hellish intervention. Some steps, however, must be taken, and some method adopted to silence the cry. To bribe the hounds would produce a mortifica- tion almost equal to what I now suffer; but there is no divining how long the story may last, and the tota cantabitur urbe is terrible.— Bear it I cannot, and revenge is not in my power. The rascal keeps within the circle of privilege; and, if he should slip out of it, I am afraid that it would not answer my purpose to avail myself of his incaution. In short, I don*t know what to do. You will oblige me more than ever, in forming some wise resolutions for me, and in persuading me to execute them. Adieu! LETTER XXIV. MY DEAR FHIENI), Youn sensibility towards me during my late persecution, is a flattering mark of that affec- tionate esteem which you have ever borne me. I most sincerely thank you for it ; and have only to wish that the world knew I still retain 84 so warm a place in your heart. Such a cir- cumstance would serve as an antidote against the poison which has been instilled into the minds of mankind on my subject. The batte- ries of scandal are at length turned from me ; and some new object of their rage will, I hope, make their thundering attack upon me to be quickly forgotten. I love my country, its constitution, and its privileges, too well to say, write, or even think, any thing against that palladium of British freedom, the liberty of the press, though I have been such a sufferer by it. While it remainsj (and may it ever remain!) the people of England will have a security for those privi- leges which give them a superiority over every other nation. Perhaps the enormities of private' scandal should be checked, at the same time that, I think, it would be dangerous to suffer even an excrescence of any staple privilege to be cut off. The track of innovation widens every moment; and on this example, if it was once opened, there is no saying where it would end. A priest, 1 think, is said to have invented gun powder; and a soldier has the credit of first suggesting the art r^ printing; and I have heard wonderfuUy'curiousand profound obser- vations made upon the strange combination of 85 |the inventors and their inventions. But surely it does not require a moment's reflection to discover, that this improvement in the business of war, as well as in the republic of letters, could not have proceeded so naturally from any other characters. It is, I beheve, univer- , sally allowed, that, since the introduction of artillery and fire-arms, the trade of war is become comparatively innocent; slaughter no longer wades knee-deep in blood; and her sword is now no sooner drawn than it is satis- fied. A discovery, therefore, which has lessen- ed the carnage and horrors of battle, was most naturally produced by a minister of the gospel of peace. On the contrary, we have only to I examine the history of letters since the in- Ivention of printing, and lo! what an host of ■polemical writers appear, armed with the most bitter spirit of mahce and resentment! j What feuds, both national and domestic have 'arisen from it ! What rage has been inflamed ! llow many wars have been engendered! What disgraceful, inflammatory, and unchristian controversies maintained ! How many scandals of every kind have been propagated, and what passions have been incited by it ! &c. so that , the most free governments have been obliged to enact laws to restrain and controul it. Such j an invention, therefore, maybe said to pro- ceed, in its natural course, from one whose 86 pvofesslon is founded on the animosities, in- justic, and malevolence, of mankind. I doubt ' not but you will now agree with me, that the \ world is, as it ought to be, more indebted to I the priest than the soldier. You will tell me, \ perhaps, that this argument arises from the \ smarting of my wounds, whieh are not yet \ skinned over; I feel myself of a contrary opi- 'i nion; but I will quit the subject till not a scar '' remains, when I shall take tlie opportunity of '| some tranquil- hour to bring the matter, by your leave, into debatr with you. I remain, with great regard, &c. LET I ER XXV. MY DEAR , I MUST acknowkdge, notwithstanding I am treated with some Jegree of civiUty in it, that the dedication you mention is a wretched bu- siness, and disgraces the volume to which it is prefixed. You wonder I did not write a bet- ter for him myself; and I would, most assur- edly, have done it ; but among many excellent qualities which this dedicator possesses, he is a blab of the first delivery, and I dared not venture to trust him. The testamentary arrangement which ap. pointed him to the honourable labours of an 87 ;ditor, took its rise from three motives ; — firsts mark a degree of parental resentment igainst an ungracious son ;— secondly, from an )pinion that a gracious nephew's well-timed latteries had created of his own understand- ng; — and, thirdly, from a design of bestow- ing upon this self-same gracious nephew a le- .jacy of honour from the publication, and of orofit from the sale of the volume. He is as )roud of the business as a new-made knight of lis title, is never easy but when he is receiv- ng incense from booksellers and their jour- leymen, and loves to be pointed at as a child )f science. I wish he may be contented with (lis present celebrity, though if I know him iright, this editorial business will awaken ideas |)f his having talents for a superior character, Ivud that he is qualified to publish his own jvorks with as much eclat as he has done those j )f another. If he attempts to climb the ladder of ambition in any, but particularly in a litera- iy way, he must fall. I have counselled him o be content ; and the booby gives it out that am envious of his reputation. Poor silly fool ! 1 only wish the daw may keep the one poor eather he has got ; for, if he attempts any ad- lition to his plumage, the vanity will draw him ' nto a scrape, in which he will be stripped as )are as Nature made him, But, to change my subject to a coxcomb of another sex ; Mrs. has clone what she has no right to do, and has said, what she is not authorized to say. It is not in the power, even of so able and so respectable an advocate as yourself, to work up any thing that has the resemblance ofa satisfactory justification. Your arguments, which are so powerful in the cause of truth, are the slightest of all cobwebs in support, or, 1 should rather say, in palliation of fiilsehood. This, among other things, is much to your honour, and I congratulate your disqualification to plead a bad cause. If yoa have been a volunteer on the occasion, I com- pliment your gallantry ; if you have been in- fluenced by the lady's request, I admire your ready fiiendship. You. have every merit with me ; and, to give you the satisfaction you so well deserve, I cannot but authorize you to set the dame at rest, and to hush her every fear. This is no small sacrifice ; for I have the most ample means of vengeance in my hands ; and, if it will advance your interests at her court, you have full permission to declare that my wrath has been averted by your interposition. Nullum memorabile nomen Fo?minea in pcena est nee habet Victoria lau-' dem. I remain very truly, Sec. 89 LETTER XXVI. You have won both your wagers. — In speak- ing of* the inhabitants of China I do make use of the word C'hiiieses, and I borrow the term from Milton, As to your first bet, that I used such an expression, your ears, I trust, will be grateful for the confidence you had in them. But your second wager, that if I did use it, I had a good authority, is very flattering to my- self; and I thank you for the opimon you en- tertain of the accuracy of my language. My imemory will not, at this moment, direct you to the page ; but you will readily find the word .n the index of JVevent» When his imagination was once kindled, it was an equal chance whether he obscured virtue, or dignified vice. The source of his delusive writings was an headstrong vivid fancy, which practised as great deceits jpon himself; as he had ever done upon man- bind. — But to return to my subject. For the life of me, I cannot read sermons 2ven with Lord Chatham; and my hands are too unhallowed to unfold the sacred volume ; |3ut I find in Milton's poems every thing that ;s sublime in thought, beautiful in imager}', jind energetic in language and expression. To ,ittain a reputation for eloquence is my aim and ■ny ambition ; and, if I should acquire the art j3f clothing my thoughts in happy language, |idorning them with striking images, or en- 'orcing them by commanding words, I shall be ndebted for such advantages to the study of pur great British classic. 1 I know you would not recommend my riends, the poels^ to take a leading part in the ,jtudy of eleoquence. You may, probably, ap- )rehend that poetical pursuits would be apt to ijjive too poetical a turn to discourse as well jis writing; and to beget a greater attention jo sound, than to sense. Such an idea is cer- ., ainly founded in truth ; and your objections l;re perfectly sensible, when an application to 94 the poets Is not conducted with judgment, and moderated by prosaic reading and exercises. — A little circumstance in point, which just occurs to rae, will make you smile. When my father had completed the first copy of his his- tory, the friends, to whom he sent it for their criticism.^nd correction, universally agreed in its being written in a kind of irregular blank verse, from the beginning to the end. He was much surprised at the information ; but, on examining his work, he found it to be true, and gave to the whole the excellent dress it now wears. Sir Robert R was so unfair as to impress some of the passages upon his memory, and has since been so ill-natured as to repeat them. — But to put a period to this long letter, I declare myself to be very angry, wlien you are but twenty miles from me, that you should not put your horses to your chaise, and be here in a shorter space of time than is necessary to fill up half a sheet of paper. You will do well to come and amuse yourself here, leaving gouty uncles and croaking aunts to themselves. There is more vivacity concen- trated in my little dell, than is to be found in all the ample sweets of your vale. As you are | musical, I will prepare a syren to sing to you, and you shall accompany her ui any manner |P you please. Adieu ! Yours most truly, &c. 95 LETTER XXVII. I CAXXOT yet fancy the suspected prelimi- naries of alliance between France and America; and I will tell you why : because I think it will not be the mutual interest of either of them to engage in such a treaty. The French finan- j ces are not in a state to justify the risking a war with England, which an open alliance with America must immediately produce. Mon- sieur de Maitpouz, and Monsieur de JVecker, if I am rightly informed, are of the same opinion. ■ and, I believe, from nobler motives and bet- |ter reasons, are in opposition to those propo- ;Sals which the A^nericans are said to have of- ifered, to induce France to give an avowed I support to their cause. My information goes I somewhat farther, and assures me, that the ; opinions of the two statesmen already men- .tioned are supported by all the graver men land old officers in the kingdom. America, at 'present, makes a very povverful and extraor- liinary resistance, and tJiere seems to be a spi- rit awakened in her people, which wili woful- ■y prolong the period of her reduction. The ^ contest is, at present, between a child forced nto resistance by what it calls tyranny, and a parent enraged at filial ingratitude, who. is re- jolved to reclaim his offspring by force and 96 chastisement. In such a state, Ihougii a mad spirit of rebellion may instigate revolted chil- dren to act against the parent, and the bre- thren of the house of theii* parent, the latter will go very reluctantly to the business ol bloodshed; and many a brave man will consi- der the duty of the soldier and the citizen as incompatible, and let the former sink into the latter. But the moment tliat America flies for protection to the arms o{ France, the case \vi! be changed ; every tie of consanguinity wil be then broken ; it will be impossible to dis- tinguish between them and their allies; they will be all the object of one common resent- ment ; and the Americans must expect, as they will surely find, an equal exertion against them as will be employed against their insiduous supporters. But tliis is not the only reason why I thinh America will maintain the contest better with- out the open support of France ,• 1 have ano- ther, in the natural aversion they bear to each other. No two civilized nations, in the same quarter of the globe, can bear a more differ- ent and clashing character than France and the revolted colonies. Fire and water would as soon blend their opposite elements, as the so- lemn, gloomy, unpolished American, with the g-ay, sprightly animated jF/e«cAm««. BesideSj 9/ how will it be possible for the simple, sullen leaven of Calwiism to be kneaded in the same lump with the motley genius and complicated ceremony of Popery ? While the hope of in- dependence keeps alive the spirit of conten- tion, such considerations, if suggested at all, will, for a time, give way to their ambition ; 1 but, should tlie object of it be attained, they would arise, on the first interval of repose, in all the bitterness of disunion, and bring on a scene of internal confusion big with greater horrors than they now experience. What will these deluded people think, and how will they act, who after manifesting such a soleain and ; bold aversion to the power of a Protestant bishop, after having held forth the act of par- liament which gave to the conquered inhabi- j tants of Canada, a toleration of their religion, I as one of their justifications to rebellion ; I re- I peat again, what will be the conduct of these I people, when they see the cross adored in I their streets, and hear the benedictions and "anathemas of Rome pronounced in their cities. For my own part, I cannot conceive such an event as American independence : and, in my poor opinion, if it were to be given thera to-morrow, it would, in the end, prove a worse jpresent than the Stamp Act itself, with all its aggravated horrors. — The guards are ordered E 93 'a cross Ihe Atlantic, and — along with them. 1 am glad you like him ; I thought my prophe- cy in that particular would be fulfilled. You knew Madame, I think, at Geneva. They both possess the same disposition to give a plea- sant turn to every thing. They put their son to board chez un Bourgeois de Dijon, and have never since troubled themselves about the boy, or the pension stipulated for his support. Luckily for the child, the man to whose care he was entrusted has taken a fancy to him, and declares, if he should be deserted by his pa- rents, that he will do his best to provide for !)im ; and our friends think it the best joke in the world. I have been to see the Justitia hulk, where •imong many other miserables, I saw poor IJignatn wear the hubit of a slave. He seem- ed disposed to speak to me ; but I had previ- ously desired the superintendant to request him, since it was not in my power to do him :jervice, to wave all appearance of his having known me. This mode of punishment offers a very shocking spectacle ; and, 1 think, must undergo some alleviation, if it be not entirely abolished. Ifit were to come again before par- liament, I should give the subject a very seri- ous consideration, and the measure a very se- rious oi>p(.sition. Is it not extraordinary, that the first public exhibition of slavery in this 99 kingdom — for so it is, however the siluatlon may be qualified by law — should be suggested by a Scotchman, and tliat the first regulator of this miserable business should be from the same country ? I do not mean to throw out any unpleasant ideas concerning any one whose lot it was to be born on the other side of the T'weed, but merely to state a fact for your observation. I have known many of my northern fellow subjects, and esteemed them. David Hmne possesses my sincere admiration ; but though the object of his writings was to remove prejudices, he himself possessed the strongest in favour of his country, and was, as is the great weakness of Scotchmen, so jealous of its honour, that I gave him great offence at Lord Hertford's at Raglty^ by asking him at what time of tlie >ear tiic harvest was housed in Scotland. My question arose from an inno- cent desire of being satisfied in that particular; but he conceived it to convey a suspicion, that there was no harvest, or at least no barns, in his country; and liis answer was slight and churlish. — Fare you well! If you hear any thing on the continent that at all concerns the present state of public aflTuirs, I beg you will not fail to favour me with the most early com- munication. I amy with great sincerity, Sec. 100 LETTER XX\ III. MT DEAR — — , I CANKOT assert it as a matter within my own knowledge ; but I have some reason to believe, that the late Earl of Jiath, at the close of life, manifested a kind of preference of the French to the English government. Upon what principles such an opinion was grounded, I cannot pretend to say ; it is impossible he could form it in the abstract ; it must arise, therefore, from pride of heart, degrading sen- timents of mankind, a natural love of power, or from some of those selfish motives which grow more strong and prevalent as men ap- proach the end of their days. In short, the French government might be more suitable to his character and dispositions ; and, though this conjecture is not in his favour, I believe it to have a foundation in truth. It is a com- mon case among mankind, where reason and judgment are perverted by the strength of habitual inclination. I will give you an exam- ple that shall please you. No one of common understanding, and who has the least idea of human affairs, or know- ledge of human nature, after a comparative examination of the Gospel and the Alcoran, will not give to the former a most instant, de- 101 cided, and universal preference. He will ad- mire the rational, and amiable doctrines of" the one, and as readily acknowledge the absur- dities of the other. Nevertheless, there are men of sense — I know some of them, and so do you, my friend— who would so far yield to the warm desire of habitual gratification, as to give their immediate consent to exchange Christianity for the religion oi' Mahomet. Lord JBath must have been indebted for the opi- nions given to him, to the triumph of an irra. tional self-love over a rational love of mankind; perhaps to the imbecility of his social affec- tions may be added the strange caprices of disappointed dotage. I have either read or heard an assertion, that it is impossible to find upon earth a socie- ty of men who govern themselves upon prin- ciples of humanity ; and I am forced to ac- knowledge, that the opinion will find a very powerful support in the customs of almost eve- ry country in the world. Whoever will con- sider with attention the histories of mankind, and examine, with an impartial eye, the con- duct of different nations, will be soon convinc- ed, that, except those duties which are abso- lutely necessary to the preservation of the hu- man species, he cannot name any principle of morals, nor imagine any rule of virtue, which, 102 ill some part or other of the world, is not di« rectly contradicted by the general practice of entire societies. The most polished nations have supposed, that they had an equal right to expose their children, as to bring them into the world. There are countries now existing, where the child feels it as an high act of filial duty to desert or murder his parents, when they can no longer contribute to their own support. Garcilasso de la Vega relates, that certain people of Peru make concubines of their female prisoners of war, nourish and carefully feed the children they have by them, on which they afterwards feast. But this is not all ; when the wretched mother can no longer furnish the delicacies of their horrid banquets from her womb, she shares the fate of her offspring, and becomes the meal of the barbarians, whose throats had been moistened with the blood of her children. It would be a matter of very little difficulty to fill a volume with the various inhumanities which mingle with the governments of the Mian, JJrican, and savage American nations of this day. The lilstorians, also, of ancient times, would greatly Increase the sad history of human calamity ; nor is the quarter of the world which we inhabit exempted from fur- nishing its quota to the miserable account. The various customs, religions, and goverr*- ments, which divide more enliglitened Europe^ might furnish a multitude of actions less bar- barous, indeed, in their appearance, but as re- prehensible in reality, and as dangerous in their consequences, as those already ricited. England, however, has this advantage over the rest of her neighbour-kingdoms, that the examples of inhumanity which she has produ- ced have arisen from an audacious abuse of her laws ; while those of other nations seem to arise from the nature of their constitutions. A code of such wise, rational, and humane le- gislation never was known in the world, as that which prescribes the rule of conduct, as well to the governors as to the governed, in our kingdom. The principles of it are found- ed in the perfection of human reason, and, in a certain degree, on that happy union of jus- tice and mercy which divines have given to the decrees of Omnipotence. — But my paper admonishes me to quit this interesting subject, or it will not leave me a space sufficient to as- sure you, with what real regard, I am Yours, S;c> LETTER XXIX. The first article of vour letter which tells 104 me of 's death, has very much affected me ; and, if it had arrived three hours sooner, I would have set off for London, to have dissi- pated the grave thoughts it occasions. I can hardly give credit to your account of her last moments ; she had much to regret; rank, for- fiine, friends and beauty, which St. Evremond says, a woman parts with more reluctantly than even life itself By this time, I trust, she has reached the Elysian fields, and, with the blest inhabitants of that delightful abode. On flowers repes'd, and with fresh garlands crovvn'd. Quaffs immortality and joy.— — However that may be, the event of her death is very sensibly felt by me. I shall miss her very much; not indeed as an acquaintance — for she would admit me only to her public assembUes — but, as an object of respect; and truly sorry am I that she has gone, for the sake of her sex, as she has not left one behind who can supply her place in my good opinion. I had a sort of occasional respect for every wo- man on her account, which, I fear, will be bu- ried in her grave. — She had nothing of female inconsistency about her, and every thing of fe- male delicacy. She conversed with the un- dei-standing of a man, but with the grace and elegance of her own sex. Her sentiments, Fan- 105 guag-e, and manners, were, like her own frame, in the image of man, but possessing every at- traction of female nature. — 1 will tell you a se- cret; she was the only woman who ever made me blush, and she once dyed my cheeks with such a crimson shame, that I feel them glow at this distant moment. * • « To maintain the quahties of goodness, ten- derness, affection and sincerity, in the several offices of life ; to disdain ambition, avarice, luxury and wantonness; and to avoid affecta- tion, folly, childishness and levity, is the con- summation of a female character, and was fully accomplished by the lovely woman who is no more. She little thought, I beUeve, that it would be an employment of mine to pen her eulogium; and you smile, I suppose, at my pretensions to describe female perfection. To tell you the truth, I strained very hard to pro- duce the foregoing period. My brain had a se- vere labour of it, and suffered no small pains in the dehvery. However, I now recommend the pious bantling to your care ; and, I thinks E 2 106 the midwife and the nurse will not contest the business of superior qualifications. I put an end to the pleasure of my acquaint- ance with — — at the Buke of Bolton's mas- querade at ffaciwood, some years ago, by what I thought a little simple love-making, but which she thought impudence ; and she has never suffered me to approach her since that time, but upon the most distant footing. You may know, perhaps, that I have got a terrible character for this self-same vice of effrontery, and, I am afraid, not without some little reason. It is, upon the whole, an imprudent mode of proceeding; and, though attended with more success than modest people may imagine, as you well know, never has a prosperous con- clusion. One failure tacks a miserable epithet to one's name for ever. In military^operations, the attack by storm sometimes effects great matters; but, on such a design, a repulse is sometimes fatal, and always attended with much loss and bloodshed. This has been the case with me in fields less glorious, but far more delightful, than those of Mars. The arrival of newspapers has caused a short interruption to my writing, and they acquaint me with a circumstance which you have omit- ted, that she died in child-bed. It was a cus- toiD, as I have read, among some of the ancient 107 nations to bury the infant alive with the mo- ther whose death it had occasioned. I shud- der at the idea ; nevertheless, in this particu- lar instance, I am disposed to vote all my ma- lice to the brat which has deprived the world of so bright an ornament. — Adieu !— -Shall I pay a compliment to your penetration, in sup- posing that you will perceive how tardily my pen has proceeded to the bottom of the page? — But this is literally the fact. The French proverb says, On ne park jamais de bonne foi^ quand on park Trial des femmes* I apprehend you would be unlucky enough to re,verse the sentiment, and apply it to Yours, &c. LETTER XXX. ^ We all of us grew suddenly tired of our Wiltshire rustication ; and, without a dissen- tient voice, voted a party to Bristol, where I ate such excellent turtle, and drank such exe- crable wine, that, with the heat of the weather into the bargain, I was suddenly taken ill at the play-house, almost to fainting, and was oblig- ed to hurry into the air for respiration. Be- lieve me, I did not like the business. Cold sweats and shiverings, accompanied with in- ternal sinkings, gave me a better notion of dy- 108 ing than I had before, and made me think so seriously of this mortal life, that, on my return home, I shall take the opportunity of the first gloomy day to make my will, appoint execu- tors, and harangue my lawyer into low spirits on the doctrine of death and judgment. i exhibited myself— for none of the party wouio accompany me—at a public breakfast at ^'^ Eot Wells, and sat down at a long table ;i a number of animated cadavers, who de- voured their meal as if they had not an hour to live ; and, indeed, many of them seemed to be in that doleful predicament. But this was not all. I saw three or four groups of hectic spectres engage in cotillions ; it brought in- stantly to my mind Holbein's Dance of Death; and methouglit I saw the raw-boned scare- crow piping and tabouring to his victims. — So I proceeded to the fountain ; but, instead of rosy blooming health, diseases of every colour and complexion guarded the springs. As I approached to taste them, I was fanned by the foetid breath of gasping consumptions, stunned with expiring coughs, and suffocated with the effluvia of ulcerated lungs. — Such a living Gol. gotha never entered into my conceptions ; and I could not but lookuponthe stupendous rocks that rise in rude magnificence around the place, as the wide-spreadingjawsof an universal se- pulchre. 109 Lord Walpole told me he was therein attend- ance upon a daughter. I was glad to turn my back upon the scene — but I had not yet come to the conclusion of it; for as I was waiting for my chaise, two different persons put cards into my hand, which informed me where funerals were to be furnished with the greatest expedi- tion, and that hearses and mourning coaches were to let to any part of England. I immedi- ately leaped into my carriage, and ordered the postilion to drive with all possible haste from a place where I was in danger of being buried alive. After all, this tenancy of life is but a bad one, with its waste and ingress of torturing diseases; which not content with destroying the build- ing, maliciously torture the possessor with such pains and penalties, as to make him of- tentimes curse the possession. Man's feeble race what ills await ! Labour and penury — the racks of pain : Disease and sorrow's mournful train, And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate. If I continue this kind of letter any farther, you will tell me that I shall repent, found hos- pitals, and die a Methodist; and that Roches- ter's funeral sermon and mine will be bound up in the same volume, to the edification and 110 comfort of all sinnersof every enormity. Adieu, therefore, and believe me very truly Yours, &c. LETTER XXXr. I NEITHER hunt nor shoot; the former is a diversion which requires certain sacrifices thaj I cannot grant, and shall not enumerate; the latter suits me better, but is as little pursued as the other. The business and form, not to say tyranny, of preserving game, which is ne- cessary to establish a certainty of sport, is not to my way of thinking. The laws concerning game form a very unconstitutional monopoly ; but that is not all; the peace and society of provincial vicinities are more or less disturbed, by jealousies and disputes arising from the game, in every part of the kingdom. My coun- try employments are better than you imagine. I am reading, with great care and observation, the works of the Chancellor D*^gueseau of France. Many years ago, my father gave a vo- lume of them to me, desiring me to study it with attention, and consider the contents as his own paternal counsels. At that time I did nei- ther one nor the other; however, I am now,j. making ample amends for former neglect. The magistrate, the statesman, the lawyer, the man Ill of the world, the orator, and the philosopher, will find delight and instruction in these vo- lumes. I can say no more ; and what I have now said will add them to your library, if it does not already possess them. You must know that I am angry with you fur writing to me, or rather, for not coming instead of writing. Delay not to visit a place you so much admire, and to see a friend who loves and values you. We will study together in the morning, and court the muses in the evening, and you shall visit Papers urn by moon- light, and I will promise not to laugh at you. I propose to remain here a fortnight longer; but, if you will come to me, the time of my depar- ture shall be prolonged to your pleasure. I am, with real regard. Your most faithful, &c. LETTER XXXII. liT LOHB, Ik obedience to your lordship's commands, I have left no place unsearched, and have or- dered every possible inquiry to be made after the manuscript which my father read to you a short time before his death; but in vain. As he had determined upon a republication of his Miscellaneous Works, with the addition of some pieces which had neVer been printed; 1 imagine he was cautious about preserving any papers or compositions that were not in his opinion sufficiently prepared for the press, lest the partiality of his surviving friends might give them to tlie world. I am apprehensive, my lord, that the manu- script in question shared the fate of many others, which he had not an inclination to finish, and did not choose to leave in an unfi- nished state. However, in my search, I found three or four large sheets of paper in a folio volume, which appear to contain extracts from the memoirs of the great men of the last and present centuries, and were, probably, some of the rude materials that formed the biogra- phical sketches which your lordship so much admired, and whose loss, on that account, gives me so much concern. These papers contain little more than scraps of characters. The prin- cipal -object of them seems to be the Duke de Vitri, Ambassador Plenipotentiary from the Fi'cnch king, for the peace of Nlmeguen; but it is impossible toform out of them any satisfactory account of that able negociator. That my let- ter, however, may not be entirely without amusement, I shall add a couple of quotations, which I have found among the rest, from the characters of very figuring personages on the 113 theatre of Europe. I call them quotations, as they are written in Italian, though I cannot name the author from whence they are taken, and are immediately followed by the charac- ter of Petro7iius from the annals of Tacitus. — The first of them relates to Cardinal Mazaririf and the second to Oli would ifbt have meditated such a fruitless er rand to their ambitious sister. I was well assur ed that they would not convert her, and the fancy came across me to aim at converting them. In this business I so exerted myself ir every form of attention, flattery and amuse- ment, that I verily believe they returned to their home at Chipping.JVbrton, without en- forcing that remonstrance which was the mo- tive of their journey. — That Chipping-Norton, in whose neighbourhood I passed with my grandmother many of my youthful days, and to which I had never associated any idea but that of pigs playing upon organs — that chilly Chipping- J^'orton should yield one of its fonfner toasis to be the car a sposa of your friend ! — j What can your fertile fancy deduce from thei union of Hagley's genius, and the widowed protectress of the more than widowed LeasonvesP If offspring there should be, what a strange de- mi-theocrite will owe its being to such a hy- men ! Alas! my friend, this is but a dream fori your amusement ; the reality will offer to your compassionate experience the marriage of in- fatuation and necessity, whose legitimate and certain issue will be a separate maintenance, and perhaps a titled dowry. ! I have many and various communications to! iir make to you, but they must be reserved for personal intercourse. In the mean time, when you shall see me announced as being added to .he Benedicks of the year, save me, I beseech 70u, save me your congratulations. Nothing S so absurd as the tide of felicitations which low in upon a poor newly-married man, be- bre he himself can determine, and much less he complimenting world, upon the propriety if them. Marriage is the grand lottery of life; fld it is as great a folly to exult upon entering nto it, as on the purchase of a ticket in the tate wheel of fortune. It is when the ticket 3 drawn a prize that we can answer to congra- j Illation. — Adieu ! LETTER XXXIV. ;t deak , If I am not very much mistaken, your libra- jT-table is always furnished with an interleav- d Bruyere, on whose blank pages you amuse Durself with extending the ideas of that cele- (■ated writer, or directing them to modern jplications. I am, therefore, to offer my name ) an addition to your collections, and to de- re that in your scholia on that excellent ork, I may furnish a trait to his admirable laracter of the absent man. 118 On the day of my marriage, a day— bu po more of that ! — After the nuptial benedic lion was over, and we were returning to ou equipage, instead of being the gallant Bene dick, and conducting the new-made Mrs. L to her coach, I slouched on before, and wa actually getting into the carnage, as if I hai been quite alone ; but recollecting myself, a my foot was upon the step, I turned round ti make my apology, which completed the busi ness, for 1 addressed the bride in her widow cd name, with " My dear Mrs. P , I bei ten thousand pardons," and so on. This fit o absence was as strange as it proved ridiculou — an omen, perhaps, of all the ungracious bu siness which is to follow. You may first laugl at this little foolish history, and then, if yo please, apply it to a more serious purpose. Bu this species of absence is an hereditary virtue — A virtue ! say you ? — Yes, Sir, a virtue ; fo it is a mark of genius, and my Right HonouK ble Father possesses it in a most flattering dt gree. I will present you with a most remarks ble example, which you may also add to th composition of your modern Theophrastu His lordsiiip was about to pay a morning sacr fice at the shrine of M , and a large bunc of early pinks lay upon his toilette, which wer to compose the offering of the day. With thos 119 antique or professional beaux, who wear tiie tye or large flowing wig, it appears to be con- venient, in the ceremony of their dress, that the head should bring up the rear, and be co- vered the last. The full-trimined suit was put on, the sword was girded to his side, the cha- peau de bras was compressed by liis left arm, the bunch of pinks graced his right hand, and his night-cap remained upon his pate. The servant having left the room the venerable peer, forgetful of his perukean honours, would actually have sallied forth into the street in full array and en bonnet de mat, if his valet de cham- bre had not arrived, at the critical moment, to prevent his singular exit. I was present ; but my astonishment at his figure so totally sus- pended my faculties, that he would have made the length of Curzon street before I should have recovered any power of reflection. I was accused, as you may suspect, of a purposed in- attention, in order to render his lordship ridi- culous ; and I was told upon the occasion, that, although this kind of occasional absence of mind might furnish folly with laughter, it ge- nerally arose from that habitual exertion of thought which produces wisdom. You may congratulate me, therefore, o;; the prospect of my advancement to the title of sage, I am already married, and what is to follow 120 God alone knows. Strange things daily happen dans ce bas monde^ and things more strange may be behind. I have such a budget to open for you ! — but that discovery must be reserv- ed till we meet. Suffice it to say at present, Qujedam parva quidem, sed non toleranda raa- ritis. LETTER XXXV. I CONGRATULATE you, with no common sin- cerity, on having got most completely into a scrape, from whence all your finesse and pm- dent demeanour will not be able to extricate you. I have seen you, more than once, venture upon a fliglit which left my effrontery far be- hind, while 1 could not but envy you the ad- vantages which public prepossession in your favour gave you over me. Frequently have I blasphemed my stars, for not having given me the art of saving appearances, which you so eminently possess, but I have now good reason to hope, that you have, at length, fallen from your height, and will be obliged in future to roll in the mire with myself, and a few others of our common nature. The devil, in tiie lan- guage of the proverb, having long owed you a grudge, has taken a very fair opportunity to pay 121 . ■.';. in esjj.v .. it. You may now exclarim, on youir »,-r«.<«trcc into our Pandsemonium, Hail, horrors, hail! and thou, profoundcst hell. Receive thy new possessor. For your consolation, however, I shall inform lyou, that, before the period of my present in- corrigible humour, T was once in a state of dis- advantage, very similar, in its circumstances and effects, to that which has now overtaken you. You must know, then, that some years jgo I had formed an unlucky plan to mortify imy Right Reverend Uncle, who had taken i jome authoritative liberties with me, without 'jiving him a fair opportunity to express his re- uentment. This was no less than an attack upon he temporal piivijege of episcopacy, in pos- essing a seat in the House of Lords. I had ome thouglits of my own upon the subject, tut I had fortunately added to their number nd importance, from the accidental perusal f a republished tract on the conduct of., our ishops through upwards of twenty reigns, j'hich unanswerably proved, that, during so Ung a period, they had almost uniformly ma- ifested themselves to be foes to rational liber- '. — I took up the argument in a very general ew, urged it with modesty, and, what was ^, btter, with security, as, in case it had been F 122 rt^**u«f4'Wrtb. ang-er, I was armed with the .iphilon p*" my fMTuer, who was present, and, io his Persian Letters, has written to the same pur- pose. In short, I enjoyed all the triumph tlmt my malicious expectation could have framed. Th€ prelate grinned with vexation, but was forced to acquiesce in silence, and I had my revenge. But, not many days after, when my resentment towards this reverend relation had been lost in its fruition, a trifling circumstance happened, which his vigilant anger gladly seized, in order to heap upon me every indig- nity which his truly christian spirit was capa- ble of producing. As a family party of us were crossing the road on the side of Hagley Park, a chaise passed along, followed by a couple of attendants with French horns. Who can that be ? said my father. Some itinerant mounte- bank, replied I, if one may judge from his mu- sical followers. I really spoke with all the in- difference of an innocent mind: nor did it oc- cur to me, that the Right Reverend Father in God, my uncle, had sometimes been pleased to travel with servants accoutred with similar instruments. But evil on itself will soon recoil, und my recollection was soon restored to me t>y a torrent of abuse, which was, in length. )2I violence, and, I had almost said, in expression, equal to any sacred anathema of popish re- sentment. In short, I was cursed, damned, and sent to the devil, in all the chaste periphrasis of a priest's implacability. The whole of the business was of a very singular nature ; he availed himself of an inoffensive occurrence ta let loose his resentment at a past offence ; while I, in a state of actual innocence, sunk beneath the consciousness of my past guilt. This last part of the story is, I presume, ia perfect unison with your present feelings. — liut, to conclude with a serious observation, be assured, my friend, that, however rich, great, or powerful a man may be, it is the height of folly to make personal enemies of ^ any, but particularly from personal motives; for one unguarded moment — and who could support the horrors of a never-ceasing, suspi- ^ cious vigilance ! — may yield you to the revenge of the most despicable of mankind. From a very unpleasant experience of my own, I should, most sincerely, counsel every young man, who is entering on the theatre of the world, to merit the good opinion of mankind, by an easy, unaffected, and amiable deport- ment to all, which will do more to make his walk through hfe respectable and happy, than those more striking and splendid qualities^ 124 which are for ever in the extremes of honour or disgrace. — Adieu! — I shall be curious to hear of the progress you make in the thorny- paths of contrition ; and whether the fruits of it will be adequate to the humiliating penal- ties you must have undergone. I am, with great regard, Yours, &c. LETTER XXXVI. MT DEAR SIR, I SINCERELY lament with you the death of Dr. Goldsmith, as a very considerable loss to the learned, the laughing, and the sentimental world. His versatile genius was capable of pro- ducing satisfaction to persons of all these vary- ing denominations. But I shall, without hesi- tation, combat the opinion which you derive from the insolvent state in which he died, that genius and talents meet with an ungrateful re- turn from mankind, and are generally seen to struggle with continual and insuperable diffi- culties, Plautus is related to have turned a mill ; Boethius died in a gaol ; Tasso was in constant distress; Cervantes died of hunger; and our Otway from too eager an indulgence of that appetite ; Camoens ended his days in an hospital; and Vaugelas left his body to the 125 surgeons to pay his debts as far as It would go. I could fill my paper with a melancholy detail of genius in misfortune; but it would require a volume of no common size to examine into the causes of such an affecting branch of human distress ; and if a work of that nature were to be composed, it would prove no more than what we already know, that genius is not ex- empt from human failings, and frequently pos- sesses them in a degree superior to ordinary talents and common dulness. An improvident spirit, and disdam of reflection, are no uncom- mon attributes of that character; audi need not inform a child of ten years old, that the dullest Rosniante, who keeps on his way, will sooner arrive at his destined end, than the fleetest courser of Newmarket, who has taken a different direction. An unenlightened and barbarous age may deny bread to men of understanding ; but we have the happiness to live in the full blaze of reason and knowledge. At this period, the man of genius, as well as the less learned cha- racter, is equally the framer of his own for- tune ; and it must arise from some inherent deficiency in both, when the means of com- fortable existence, to say no more, are remote from them. This age is the most favourable that has ever been known in the annals of time, 126 for men of genius, talents and skill, in any and every branch of science and art. To come home, however, to your subject ; tell me, I beg of you, in what respect Dr. Goldsmith was neglected. As soon as his talents were known, the public discovered a ready disposition to reward them ; nor did he ever produce the fruits of them in vain. His mode of life is ge- nerally known ; the profits of his labours are no secret, and the patronage beneath which he, some time, flourished is a matter of pub- lic notoriety : nor shall I swerve from truth in the declaration, that he was encouraged -equal to his merits, whatever they may have been ; and that the public were ready to increase their favour in proportion to his exertions. — Ask your bookseller what Dr. Goldsmith did acquire, and what he might have acquired, by his writings : continue the question with re- spect to the manner in which many of them were produced, and what was the spring which generally set his talents in motion. The re- spective replies will be sufficient to convince you, that, if your favourite author died in po- verty, it was because he had not discretion enough to be rich. A rigid obedience to the scripture command of Take no thought for to- tnorrotVf with an ostentatious impatience of coin, and an unreflecting spirit of benevolence,. lit occasioned the difRculties of liis life, and the insolvency of its end. He might have blessed himself with a happy independence ; enjoyed, without interruption, every wish of a wise man ; secured an ample provision for his ad- vanced age, if he had attained it, and have made a respectable last will and testament ; and all this without rising up early, or sitting- up late, if common sense had been added to his other attainments. Such a man is awakened into the exertion of his faculties but by the im- pulse of some sense which demands enjoy- ment, or some passion which cries aloud for gratification ; by the repeated menace of a creditor, or the frequent dun at his gate ; nay, should the necessity of to-day be relieved, the procrastinated labour will wait for the neces- sity of to-morrow ; and if death should over- take him in the interval, it must find him a beg- gar, and the age is to be accused of obduracy in suffering genius to die for want ! If Pope had been a debauchee he would have lived in a garret, nor enjoyed the attic elegance of his villa on the banks of the Thames. If Sir Joshua Reynolds had been idle and drunken, he ipight, at this hour, have been acquiring a scanty and precarious maintenance by painting coach-pannels and Birmingham tea-boards. Had not David Hume possessed the invariable 128 temper of his country, he might have been the actual master of a school in the Hebrides ; and the inimitable Garrick, if he had possessed Shuter's character, would have acquired little more than Shuter's fame, and suffered Shu- ter's end. — Name me a man of genius in our days, who, if he has been destitute of inde- pendence, had a right to complain of any one but himself. You may tell me that Lloyd died in a gaol ; and I believe, from every thing I have heard of that very ingenious gentleman, that his fate would have been the same, if he had been born to the inheritance of an ample fortune. You will add, perhaps, the name of your very learned friend Morell. He certainly deserves well of, and is esteemed by, the learn- ed world ; but the acute critic and profound grammarian seems to be impelled, rather by the love of science than the desire of gain— is generally in the habit of frugal contentment, and hides himself in that shade of retirement, vvliere the learned few alone can find him. I am, however, entirely of your opinion, that he merits a less restrained situation than he pos- sesses ; and I agree with you in not forgiving Dr. B for a breach of justice in opposing his election to a fellowship at Eton. Such a prrinotion would have been a suitable reward fwi liis i;>bours, and have afforded him that ample independence, and learned retread:- 129 which would have left his closing life without a wish. B— - was the most able schoohnaster that ever grasped the birch ; and I am sorry- he should disgrace his succeeding and higher office, by opposing, as 3'ou tell me, more than once, the entrance of a man into his college, the circumstances of whose life and character gave him so fair a claim to the preferment which he soUcited. But this ill treatment of your friend — for I tliink it such — is not appU- cable to the age, but to the folly of a vain man, who finds a consolation for his disappointed ambition in the despotic sway of a college, wherein he will not suffer a man to enter, whose character announces the least gleam of an independent spirit. Learning and fine talents must be respected and valued in all enlightened ages and nations; nay, they have been known to awaken a most honourable veneration in the breasts of men accustomed to spoil, and wading through blood to glory. An Italian robber not only refused the rich booty of a caravan, but conducted it imder his safeguard, when he v/as informed that Tasso accompanied it. The great Duke of Marlborough, at the siege of Cambray, gave particular orders, that the lands, &c. of the ad- mired Feneloiiy archbishop of the diocese^ ^Quld not be profaned by the violence of war,- F2 130 Caesar, the ambitious Caesar, acknowledged Tulfy's superior character ; for that the Roman orator had enlarged the limits of human know- ledge, while he had only extended those of his country. But to proceed one step higher. The great Emathian conqueror bid spare ThehouseofPindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground. Rest then assured, my friend, when a man of learning and talents does not, in this very remunerative age, find encouragement, pro- tection, and independence, that such an unna- tural circumstance must arise from some con- comitant failings which render his labours ob- noxious, or, at least, of no real utility. — Adiea, my dear Sir. — A long letter may admit of an excuse on a subject which would fill a large volume. I am, with truth, Your faithful humble servant. LETTER XXXVIL Indeed, my dear friend, you mistake the matter : irony is not my talent, and B says I have too much impudence to make use of it. It is a fine rhetorical figure ; and, if there were a chance of attaining the manner in which J^X- 131 nius has employed it, its cultivation would be worth my attention. But you add an harsh in- justice to real error, when you suppose that I have employed any powers of raillery 1 may- possess, on the subject of her most excellent majesty. I recollect the conversation which, produced this report to my disadvantage, and, if it were true, to my dishonour. 1 can easily despise the malice of those who understand and misrepresent me ; but that ignorance which both misunderstands and misrepresents, is mortifying in the extreme. I should really think it little less than blasphemy to speak ill of a princess who deserves so well. The queen does honour to the British throne : she has a right to the place she possesses in the the breast of every reflecting Englishman ; and it has ever been my opinion, that her character unites the royal virtues of her station, with the most amiable qualifications of her sex. Nor have I ever been disposed to speak unfavoura- bly of the ladies who attend her person, or compose her suit. There are, 1 must own, half a dozen figures of her household who are ob- jects of my pity ; and the strain of commisera- tion which broke from me on their subjects, has been represented, 1 find, as a contemptu- ous raillery of their royal mistress. My memo- ry will serve me, I believe, to recollect the ge- 132 Tieral tenour of my discourse on the occasion, lich 1 shaJl offer to your candid interpreta- ^ DoiJjager Lady Toimiseridy as you well 'uidts the human species into men, (.n, and h ; and where is the crime, if 1 parody on her ladyship's logic, and apply it to the division of her Majesty's household into men, women, and maids of honour? Nor will it be ditlicalt to justify this new line of distinc- tion, if we consider the peculiar offices which compose the duty, and rner of it, with a small party of his relations, id seems to be growing into a disregard of .e intrigues and fashions of public life. His 'Other is the parson of my parish, and is cal- d Doctor John.- but the divine and the squire y not hold a very friendly intercourse. I rather think that this little piece of bio- •aphy is pretty well founded ; if, however, it jould possess any errors, which may be the ise, I beg leave to assure you that they are Jt of my invention. As to Mr D 's un- Dpularity with the Littellon family, it does 3t arise, perhaps, from what you and the 140 lie world may, with some reason, suppose ; biiy from a subsequent circumstance, of which yoL,). and the world, are, in general, ignorani,, When my — — was governor of J , he re ceived positive orders to raise and disciplin a regiment of negroes for the service of thi Havcinna expedition. As this supply did no^ join the grand armament at the time appoint [ ed, Mr, D was despatched to Jamaica, b^ the commander in chiefj to chide tlie tardj levies ; and, as report says, he found a ver] sui-prising languor in obeying these very im} portant orders of government. On such ai, occasion he was, perhaps, instructed t(. threaten an accusation of deUnquency agains, the governor, to the powers at home ; and i is equally probable, that he did not forget hi^ instructions. Whether this neglect was rej paired by subsequent exertions, or whether i. was forgotten in the successes which followed I do not know; but I very well remember, that at the time, my father was very uneas}| about it, and complained in angry terms to the clergyman of Hagley, of his brother's forward ness to disgrace a branch of that family, bj which his own had been so warmly protected^ Here the matter rested; but that George D should have been elevated to a situation,, wherein he could repeat what was called ar 141 olent menace to one of the Littelton family, 1 never be remembered without much mor- nation, and, therefore, can never be forgiv- ■ Adieu. LETTER XXXIX. lucH of the disputes, and, consequently, ly of the inconveniencies, of this world, 'ic from the strange difficulty (for a strange ' it is) that men find in understanding each 'sr's meaning. — Hence the never-ending ^e of cross-purposes, in which all of us, at |is, are so much engaged. A leading cause his disunion is a negligence in using terms • ropriate to th^ir object. The philosopher, 'j true, must generalize his ideas, to com- the views of his inquiring mind. It is by \ an application of his intellectual faculties, he surmounts such a variety of obstacles; he passes from individual man to a whole ^' 3le ; from a people, to the human race ; I the time in which he lives, to the ages { are to come; from what he sees to that ', '.h is invisible. But in conveying the fruits ! I s study and reflection to others, he must ' iescend to weigh words, compare terms, . preclude all possibility of error in those istructs, by using a simplicity of defini- 142 tlon, a perspicuity of expression, and, whc: the barrenness of language denies the imm diate term, a neatness of periphrase, whi( not only invites but creates conception. You are pleased, in your last letter, tochar^ the present age with the crime of scepticisi and you have abandoned yourself to a mo than common energy on the subject. To U you the truth, I do not very clearly perceij the tendency of your accusation. If it alludi to religion, you would, I think, find some d| ficulty to maintain your position ; if it shoij glance at politics, our national submission) certainly against you ; or, leaving the highjj concerns of the world, if you should ap your assertion to the ordinary intercourse common transactions between man and m^ you are truly unfortunate, as an extreme cu bility seems to be one of the leading featu^ of the present times. The age in which live does not possess so great a share, as foij er centuries, of that faith which is able to move mountains ; blind credulity, by the suits it so long offered to reason, has, i great measure, destroyed itself, or is rati become modified into that sopriety of bel which is consistent with a rational being. 1\ gawdy, awful, and presuming phantom of pal authority, has long begun to disappe 143 at blazing meteor, which for so many ages zzled the superstitious world, verges to- irds the horizon, and grows pale before the ;ady embodied light of liberal unimpeded ence. But I cannot believe, although luxu- and dissipation, with their concomitant de- avlties, have made such enormous strides long the higher orders, that infidelity in re- ious matters is a leading characteristic of ? times. If we turn from the church to the ' te, the firm confidence of a very great ma- 'lity of the people In a government, which, T n forced to confess, does not possess all the Idom that such a government ought to pos- ijs, is a circumstance, which, were I to en- je upon it, you would be perplexed to an- lir. In the ordinary transactions of life, the jitonness of commercial credit is well pre- ed to give the lie direct to any charge of 'edulity. Ask Foley, Charles Fox, and a i(asand others, what they think of modern lelity ; and they will tell you, that the Jexi's ^nselves, that unbelieving race, have de- ed from the standard of scepticism, and, ng borne the stigma of spiritual unbelief ililjipwards of seventeen hundred years, are, lis moment, groaning beneath the effects ^mporal credulity. redula turba sumus^We are a credulous of beings; and the most steady professors 144 of scepticism are deceived by others, and d< ceive themselves, every hour of the day. R^ llglon, which commands, among its evidei truths, the belief of matters which we canni. entirely comprehend, will, sometimes, so hi, bituate the mind of its submissive disciple t acts of faith, that he does not know how withhold his assent to the most improbab; fictions of human fancy; and the Credo qu impossibile est of Tertullian is readily adopt . by his yielding piety. I shall confirm the tru': of this observation by a story which I ha heard related, and is not more extraordina in its nature, than the tone, look, and languaj i of belief which accompanied the relation.—/ traveller, benighted in a wild and mountaino country, (if my recollection does not fail w in the Highlands of Scotland) at length I holds the welcome light of a neighbouring Y bitation. He urges his horse towards it ; wht instead of a house, he approached a kind illuminated chapel, from whence issued t) i most alarming sounds he had ever hear Though greatly surprised and terrified, ventured to look through a window of t I building, when he was amazed to see a lar; ! assembly of cats, who, arranged in solemn p! der, were lamenting over the corpse of one their own species, which lay in state, and w ( surrounded with the various emblems of t 145 vereignty. Alarmed and terrified at this ex- traordinary spectacle, he hastened from the place with greater eagerness than he approach- ed it ; and arriving, some time after, at the house of a gentleman who never turned the wanderer from his gate, the impressions of ivhat he had seen were so visible on his coun- lenance, that his friendly host enquired mto he cause of his anxiety. He accordingly told 'lis story, and, having finished it, a large family ':at, who had lain, during the narrative, before die fire, immediately started up, and very ar- ticulately exclaimed, " Then I atn king of the jcfl*^/" and, having thus announced its new I dignity, the animal darted up the chimney, and was seen no more. ) Now, the man who seriously repeated this I strange and singular history, was a peer of the j"ealm, had been concerned in the active scenes pf life, and was held in high esteem and vene- I'ation among mankind for his talents, wisdom, ,ind christian piety. After this information, jvhich I give you as a serious fact, what have l^ou to say ? — Tt is impossible, but you must mmediately withdraw jour charge of infideli- y against a period which could produce one uch implicit believer. As for myself, I will readily confess to you hat I am neither a sceptic nor a believer. I G 146 have enough of scepticism to prevent the| throwing my share of faith away,- at the same time I feel within me that there is something, which I cannot very well explain, the belief whereof I ought to cultivate, and from whence I should derive much satisfaction and content- ment, could 1 but frame my mind to the pur- pose. — If, however, after all my reasoning, you should still continue to fix a sceptical charac- ter upon the present age, I trust that you will, at least, discard it from your own breast, while ' I assure you of the great regard with which I am Your most sincere humble servant. LETTER XL, MTC DEAR SIR, | Youu letters to me are those of friendship. Under the impression of this sentiment, I, at all times, receive them ; nevertheless, they are attended with this disagreeable circumstance,, that, in my answers to them, I am so ofteiv obliged to make myself the hero of my own tale. Your last charge has a foundation in truth ; and the persons whom you name as being ia the circle of my intimacy, are received at my house, and admitted to mytable. You tell me it is not only a dishonour, but a crime, to herd 147 with such men as familiar associates j and that it is beneath a rational being to receive these outcasts from all other society into mine, mere- ly to be flattered by their submission, to have base engines of my pleasures or objects for that raillery which will not be returned. It is too true, that I cannot altogether combat the force of these very severe observations ; but let me persuade you to bestow any small por- tion of your leisure on the volume of human nature, to take a short review of human fail- ings, and then to cast your eye upon that page whereon my name is written. You will there discover that my character is divided between an ardent desire of applause, and a more than equal love of pleasure ; and, on this discovery, your considerate regard will look with less severity upon me. When you have done me this justice, proceed, I beseech you, one step farther; examine the world upon my subject, and you will know what confirmed prejudices it possesses against me ; that I am the continu- al victim of its injustice ; and that, not con- tented to blazon forth my defects and follies into a false unnatural magnitude, it seems pleased with the malignant task of fabricating tales to my dishonour. Public opinion aims at excluding me from a familiar intercourse with men of virtuous life, and women of chaste 148 manners : so that, when I appear, even in ge» nerul societies, mothers seem to be alarmed for their daughters, husbands for their wives, and fathers for their sons : nay, the very im- piires of the town have refused my most ge- nerous offers, from an apprehension of my ca- pacity for mischief I will freely own that my life has been marked with an extravagance of dissipation ; but neither the force of my pas- sions, &c. nor their success, though, viciously speaking, I might be vain of the latter, can justify these violent and continual fears of me. But let us suppose, for a moment, that this most prodigal of all prodigals should meditate a reformation, and begin the salutary work vi'ith the favourable omen of shutting his doors against those vagabonds, to use your own ex- pression, whom you accuse him of suffering to enter them. If, in the arduous task of win- ning the forfeited esteem of mankind, I should begin with paying my court to the lights of the church, and beg their sanction to my infant repentance, those holy men would nut only suspect the sincerity of my declarations, but do my effrontery the credit to believe, that under the semblance of contrition, I was me- ditating some unholy impertinence to the sa- cred lawn. Permit me to continue the singu- lar idea, and suppose me commencing my roimd of episcopal visits with one of the first 149 CHARACTERS of this age and nation, the present Bishop of London. After some hesitation on the part of my coachman, you may imagine me at his lordship's gate, where it cannot be supposed that I should find admittance. — But this is not at all. — Mis. Lonxith would, proba- bly, throw my visiting card into the fire, and forbid the porter to enter my name in his book; while the right reverend prelate would determine to take the opportunity of some de- bate in the House of Lords, wherein I might be engaged, to satisfy his pohteness as a gen- tleman, by leaving his name at my door, with- out any api)rehension of being admitted with- in it. — Wliat! would you have me wander a solitary being through the world, too bad for the good, and too good for the bad? — My whole nature shudders at the idea, and I should perish in the attempt. I love superiority, flat- tery, and ease; and the society which you condemn affords the three-fold gratification. You will tell me that it consists of dishonoura- ble men; in the common sense of the term you may be right ; but dulcibus abundant vitils; and as bad instruments in the hands of agree- able performers, make a pleasant concert, so these characters compose an amusing society, "With them I am under no restraint; they know the history of the day: some of them, 150 also, are well accomplished; and while they play upon one another, I can play upon them all. Besides, coffee may be ordered at what- ever hour I please without an opposing look; and while I confer honour, I enjoy conveni- ence. You will, perhaps, be disposed to enquire if I think it worthy of me, in the phrase of vul- gar tongues, to enjoy the character oi' king of the company? — The love of rule, my dear Sir, is, more or less, the inmate of every breast; it is allied to ail the pre-eminent virtues; and the greatest men have owed their greatness to it. Ccesar declared that the first office of a village was preferable to the second station in the Roman world. Whitefield, I believe, would not have exchanged his tabernacle for a me- tropolitan diocese ; Zinzendorff, amid the sub- mission of his Moravian followers, looked down with pity on despotic empire ; nor, in the government of my Pandetnonium, do I en- vy all the didactic honours of your Lyceum. It may be an opinion which proceeds from a dissolute refinement, but it is mine — that pleasure is not pleasure, if difficulties are ne- cessary to its enjoyment. I wish, as it were, to have it brought home to me, without my stirring across the threshold. My taste for gra- tification is like their piety who erect chapels In their houses ; it makes a domestic priest- 151 hood necessary to me; and, while the pevbons who compose it are zealous in their functions, I shall look no farther. The circumstances of my past life have produced the colour of the present moment; a future period may receive another hue. The events of every passing houi- I in characters such as mine, as well as in others which are supposed to be much better, must furnish the tints. Experience may do some* thing in my favour; your friendly oracles may do more ; the calls of public duty may have their effect. To conclude, tijtie and chance ' happen unto all tnen: and through their influ. ence, the hour may arrive when prelates will I eat my soup without fear of contamination, and modest women admit me to their society with- out apprehending a loss of reputation.— Da I not be angry with me, I beseech you; it isiiii- I possible to treat the subject otherwise ; and, if I might add another petition to the nruiny you have already so kindly granted, let me en- treat you to give our correspondence a more pleasing and profitable subject, that the faiK ings of Your very sincere And obliged, &c. j LETTER XU. Thk world at large is so disposed to gene- 152 rallze, that it is seldom right when it descends into the detail of opinion. It has so many eyes and objects, that, in the act of particularizing Ihe sources of its favour or disapprobation, the rectitude or error of its conclusions are both the effect of hazard. I, as you too well know, have been the subject of its severest censure; but, with all my faults, I have much reason to complain of its precipitate injustice. Among other instances of its premature in- disposition towards me, the circumstance to which you have alluded with so much humour, is in proof of my assertion; and to heighten my mortification at that time, my own family join- ed the popular cry; so that, in pronouncing all possibility of amendment, the devoted prodi- gal was driven to a situation which absolutely precluded him from it. My father, in a long detail of my unworthi- ness, which, with his usual tenderness, he dealt forth to Harry de Salis, as a climax to the amia- ble history, concluded the Ust of my enormi- ties with declaring, that I actually intrigued with three different women of fashion at one and the same time. Without making any com- ment on the very creditable account given of me, and the favourable picture which his pious lordship displayed of our first-rate females, permit me to assure you, that neither my prowess with the ladies, nor any foolish un. 153 worthy deed of mine, occasioned the paternal displeasure of that moment. The subject of an occasional morning's reading was the true but unacknowledged cause of my disgrace. I shall do myself the justice of relating the fact to you in ail its circumstances. You must have heard of the celebrated scep- tical writer Claude ^net. His works, and the prosecution which they brought upon him, have conspired to give his name no small share of public notoriety. It will be also necessary to inform you, that, after the sacred writings. Lord L has directed his partial estimation to two popular theological productions. The one details, explains, and observes upon, the Resurrection of Christ; and the other defends the character and conduct of the Apostle Paul. The former was written by his dearly beloved friend Mr. West; the latter, by himself. The infidel Claude Anet, among other matters, thought proper to give these two publications a particular and separate consideration. He had the abominable impudence to declare, that they were not only deficient in their prin- i ciples, but that they were logically defective in the means they took to support them: na)^, he undertakes to give them arguments supe- rior to any they have used, and then to confute them. On this ground he opens his battery, G2 154 and makes his attack ; nor is he without his partizans among men of learning and talents, as I have been informed, who do not hesitate to assign him the victory. Of this I do not pre- tend to determine; I have, in truth, no genius for that line of criticism. The mode of pro- ceeding, however, must be acknowledged to have been accompanied with an air of inso- lence and contempt, which might have been the cause of mortification to men of a less sen- sible fibre than one, at least, of those against whom it was directed. It had this effect in the extreme ; for the pity of the christian gave way to the pride of the author; and the damnable sceptic, instead of being the object of fervent prayer, that he might be converted from the error of his way, was wafted, in a moment, by his pious antagonist, to the howhng portion of the devil and his angels. In an unlucky hour it was discovered, that this offensive volume was in my possession, and the subject of my occasional meditation ; and from hence arose that unexpected burst of displeasure that fell with so much weight upon me, and which had instant recourse to my graceless life, as the pretended reason for its justification. I do not know a quality of the human mind that is of such an absorbent na- ture as vanity; in one disappointed moment it 155 will suck up the virtue of years. If Claude Anet had levelled his shafts in a different direction, or I had increased my caution in tracing their course, I might have intrigued with a whole seraglio of women of fashion, without drawing upon me an atom of that vengeance of which I was the victim. I could not tell the true cause, as it would have increased, if possible, the irri- tation against me, without doing any good; and, besides, my authority would have been lighter than a feather, in the public opinion, when put in competition with the power that persecuted me; — for religious opinions apart, the whole was an abominable persecution. I never felt so sensibly the inconvenience of a bad character as at this period. Impudence could do but little; hypocrisy, which is so thick a garb for half mankind, was not a veil of gauze to me ; and as for repentance, that was not in I the reach of ordinary credibility. I was really \ in the situation of the quaker^s dog, who, being I caught in the fact of robbing the pantry, was I told, in all the complacency of revenge, by his I amiable master, ** I will not beat thee, nor kill I thee, for thy thieving ; but I will do worse, for I I will give thee a bad name;* and immediately, I on driving him from the house, alarmed the neighbourhood with the calm assurance that he was a mad dog: so that the poor animal was 156 pursued with the unreflecting brutality usual on sucli occasions, which soon put an end to his existence. — You may truly apply this story to Your affectionate, &c. LETTER XLII. You must confess, as I am sure you very well know, that one of the great arts, if not the prin- cipal one, in acquiring a reputation, as well as preserving it, is to know the extent of our ge- nius, what objects are most suitable to it, in what track its propensities should be conduct- ed, and what point to place the limits beyond which it must venture with caution, as well as the ne plus ultra, whose barriers it must not venture to pass. The man who possesses this knowledge, and acts according to the dictates ^ of it will not fail to make a respectable figure in any station, and with any talents; but in a high station, and great talents, he may be se- cure of familiarizing his name with future ages. Ambition, an ardent and specious child of self-love, continually urges men to pursue ob- jects beyond their reach. Avarice, an horrid unnatural cub of the same origin, and a dis- grace to it, takes a track which reason disdains, and honour must condemn, to satisfy its de- sires. Envy delights itself in obstructing the 157 prosperous career of others ; and folly, dream- ing of what it cannot possess, will aim at the wreath of wisdom. In short, an ignorance of ourselves, from whatever cause it may pro- ceed, whether from passion or want of reflec- !tion, is the origin of all our mistakes in pri- vate as well as public life. In the former, the mischief may be of the narrow extent ; but, in the latter, the evil may affect, not only the people, but every quarter of the globe. The grand source of that glory which shone, and will continue to shine, with resplendent lustre I on Mr. Pitt''s administration of this country, j till the annals of it are no more, was a right I application of means to ends, and, among others, of employing men according to the na- ture and tendency of their characters and ta- lents. You must perceive the drift of my ar- gument; that it leads to the defence of my public political conduct, since I have succeed- ed to my office in the constitution. — You tell me of application to business, and of throwing aside a golden sinecure as disgraceful to a real patriot. You counsel me, in the most flatter- ing manner, to claim an arduous post of go- vernment, and, by a vigilant attention to its duties, to make a better return for the emolu- ments of office, than half a dozen flowery ora- tions in Parliament, during a winter's session, which are, in your opinion, sufficiently re- 158 warded by the gratifications of my own vanity. This, I must acknowledge, is coming at once, and without ceremony to the point; but think for a moment, and ask yourself, what kind of i figure 1 should make at the desk. Can you imagine that it is in my nature, and, of course in my capacity, to bear the oppression of such multifarious and eternal business as must claim the attention of an eminent official statesman! The admirable structure of the British consti- tution, its commerce, its interests, and its al- liances, have been the objects of my serious enquiry and attentive consideration. 1 take continual occasion to watch the changing scene of its pohtical movements; 1 form, with much thought, my opinions upon them; I deliver those opinions, in my senatorial capacity, to the world ; not from the suggestions of a giddy hour, or from the spur of momentary vanity, but from curious research, ardent reflection, and deliberate preparation. To this point my talents, such as they are, must be directed ; and. by having given them in some degree their natural direction, I have acquired a po- litical reputation which would be lost in con- tempt and derision, were they to be employed in tlie routine of official employment, and the perplexities of ministerial duty. Besides, if there be any thing which requires a more than vestal's vigilance, it is the guidance of a prin- 159 ipal wheel in the machine of our government; J nd such a continual attention is foreign to my ;iature. I might, perhaps, possess it for a cer- jain time, and apply it with zeal, may I not ).dd, with reputation? but my existence would |)e insupportable, if the intervals of relaxation lid not frequently reheve me, when I might '^tire To sport with Amaryllis in the shade. Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair. i There is a certain degree of phlegm abso- .utely necessary to the well-being of society ; 3Ut I possess not an atom of it. There is also an ardour of mind that leads to national as well as personal greatness, nor am I without an ac- tive flame of it ; but it burns by flashes, and possesses me only in common with other con. tending passions, which, in their turn, com- mand my obedience, and are obeyed. Suffer the stream, I beseech you, to flow in tliose channels which nature has designed for it ; let it pass on, sometimes in foaming eddies, and sometimes with a tranquil wave ; be content to watch its progress ; and, though it may now force its angry passage through the divided mountain, your eye may soon behold its crys- tal surface reflect the golden harvests and flowery meadows. But, should its natural 160 course be changed, it would be quickly lost in bog and morass ; nor ever grow into that extent and grandeur of waters which many, rivulets attain before they reach the ocean. Is there not, in my own family, an immedi- ate circumstance of ridicule which comes in aid of my argument ? — My father, who made a respectable figure as a senator in both housesi of parliament, and possessed that theoretic po- ; litical erudition which constituted him an able counsellor of the state, was incapable, as you very well know, of counting tiventy pounds, if thrown in a promiscuous heap, of the different British coins ; — nevertheless, he was appoint- ed to preside at the exchequer, to contrive ways and means, and to run through the com- binations of finance, without the knowledge of arithmetic which is necessary to an overseer of the poor. And what was the consequence? The whole nation was upon the titter during his short-lived administration ; nor does any visitor q{ Hag ley House pass through the room which is adorned with the exchequer strong- box, but beholds the empty badge and sad memorial of his ministerial honours, with a sig- nificant look of wonder, or shrug of disappro- bation. The sage physician endeavours to meliorate, but not to change, the constitution of his pa- 161 tient, and infuses, by degrees, those whole- some aids which may help to lessen its infirmi- ties. The same wise conduct should be pur- sued in the care of mental heahh ; and to aim at turning the natural bent of genius, is an ap. plication of moral quackery, which will de- stroy all fervour of abiUty, administer an opiate to the faculties of mind, bring on apathy and torpor, and destroy all intellectual nerve for i«ver. Adieu, Sec. LETTER XLIII. I TAKE the opportunity of a sober hour, I while every one of the society here, except I myself, is happy in the delirium of a fox-chase, to tell you where 1 am, what 1 am about, and ; with whom engaged. The spleen of a gloomy ! day seized upon my spirits; so I ordered my chaise, and sought the enlivening hospitality of this mansion. To increase our satisfaction, who should arrive an hour after me but your clerical friend, whose blunt simplicity and un- polished benevolence afforded their usual en- tertainment. Parson Adams — for he has no ' other name within these walls — came on Thursday to dinner, and continued with us, in ' much joy and heart, till Saturday afternoon; when, suddenly awaking from a kind of snor- ! 1 162 jiig dose, he made a most vociferous and Ui. expected demand if it was not the last day of the week ; and receiving, after some pause of astonishment and laughter, an answer in the affirmative, he arose in haste, examined his pockets with a most anxious vivacity, and then broke the cordage of the bell, in the violence of ringing it. Being requested to explain the meaning of all this agitation, he observed, in a tone of voice which betokened no small disap- pointment, that as, in truth, it was Saturday, the morrow must, in the natural order of time, be Sunday ; and as Sunday was the Sabbath- day, it was fitting he sliould immediately re- turn home, to prepare himself for the duties of it. The night approached, and threatened darkness ; it was, therefore, proposed to him to retake the possession of his arm-chair, nor to think of business till the next morning. *' My good friends," replied the doctor, " it becomes me to inform you, that my habitation is fourteen miles distant, and that the church where I am to officiate to-morrow morning, is exactly in the midway ; so that, if I remain here till the time you propose, I must ride fouiteen miles to fetch a sermon, return seven of the same miles to preach it, and then go over these individual seven miles for the third time to preach the same sermon again, which I take, according to common arithmetic, to be 163 1 less than twenty-eight miles ; and all tiiis Jding, with double duty will be too much both ■r man and beast. I really thought," continu- 1 our divine, " that I had equipped myself ith a sermon, in order to make the first lurch an half-way house on my return to my wn parish ; but I have either forgot to clap ly divinity in my pocket, or I took it out ac- identally with my tobacco-box in my way, and jive unfortunately dropped it in the road." [e then emptied all his pockets one by one, ,ot forgetting the side-pockets of his breeches, ■jrned them inside out, covered the floor with I quantity of dry crumbs of bread and cheese, l)oked into his tobacco-box, took his watch I'om his fob, poked down two of his fingers, ixamined the lining of his coat, and at length, 'ith a deep sigh, and a huge expectoration pon his handkerchief, which he had thrown pon the ground, he gave it up for lost. " It 'as," said he, " the best discourse I had to my ack, and as pretty a piece of supernaculum s ever was enclosed in black covers. It was ivided," continued he, *' into three parts ; the rst was taken from Clarke, the second from Uernethy, and the third was composed by my- elf ; and the two practical observations were ranslated from a Latin sermon, preached and •rinted at Oxford in the year of our Lord, 725.'* On my observing that his discourse 164 had as many heads as Cerberus, he grew warm>j and told me it was much better to have three heads than none at all. " But," added thcf doctor, " if you wish to know more of the mati ter, it had four beginnings, and seven conclu^; sions ; by the help whereof I preached it, witlii equal success, on a Christmas-day, for the be-j nefit of a charity, at a florist's feast, an assize,i an arclideacon's visitation, and a funeral, be-i sides common occasions." On this account,! F observed that it put him in mind of thei mention made, in Tristram Shandy, of a text, which would suit any sermon, and a sermoni which would suit any text. This the zealous preacher loudly declared was a false insinua- tion ; for that his text was steady to its post, nor had ever deserted it ; and that whoever took him for a man who would hold out a false flag, or change his colours, on any occasion, mistook his character, and did him a very sen- sible injustice. At this period, the master of the house returned from a quiet but fruitless examination of his book-case, for the purpose of finding, perchance, some old printed ser- mon which might have served the doctor's purpose, prolonged the pleasure of his society, and saved him his dark and dangerous journey. On this disappointment, I ventured to remark, that, as he had given us so many agreeable specimens of his ready eloquence, it was cer* 165 linly in his power to treat his flock with an xtempore discourse; and I strongly recom- lended him to adopt my idea, when he struck le dumb, by hinting to me, in a loud signifi- int whisper, that I was mistaken in supposing to be as easy a business to preach a sensible discourse on a divine subject, extempore, in a iilpit, as to talk a precipitate hour of flowery, ■ othy nonsense, on a political one, in the Par- iment house. At this moment of superiority s horse was announced, and we all attended 1 hear, rather than to see, him depart, which 2 did with much horse language, and in a ight of triple darkness. It was now seven o'clock ; our spirits were ed with the parson : we gambled a little, but \it with sufl[icient spirit to keep us awake, 111 at length supper fortunately arrived to [lange the scene; and 1 had scarce dissected 1 16 wing of a capon, when we were all alarmed \y a voice from the court, -which repeated the 'y of "house! house!" with uncommon ve- 2mence. We left the table and hurried to le hall-door, when the same voice demanded, ; the same tone, whether that was the road » Bridgenorth? On a reply in the negative, it bntinued, " I suppose, then, I am at Daven- trt House" — On a second reply in the nega- ve,— "Then where the devil ami?" re- 166 turned the voice, for we could see nothing j but the candles arriving, who should appear' but our unfortunate doctor, who, after wan. dering about the commons for upwards oi three hours, had, by mere chance, returned to us again. We received him in triumph, placed him at the head of the table, where, without^ grace or apology, or indeed uttering a single word, he seized on the best part of a fowl, with a proportionable quantity of ham, and left us to laugh and be merry, while he vora^ ciously devoured his meat, and held his tongue. At length, observing that his clay wanted moistening, and that punch was a fluid the best adapted of any other to his soil, he did not de- lay an instant to quench his thirsty frame from a large bowl of that refreshing beverage. The cords of his tongue were now loosened, and he informed us, that providence having, as he supposed, for wise and good purposes, inti- mated to him, by a variety of obstructions, that he should not discharge his usual func- tions on the morrow, it became him to show a due resignation to the will of Heaven, and, therefore, he should send his flocks lo grass on the approaching Sabbath. In a similar strain he continued to entertain us, till, weari- ed with laughter, we were gl.d to retire. The next morning it was hinted to him, that the 167 ; company did not wish to restrain him from at- £ tending upon the divine service of the parish; ibut he declared that it would be adding con- 3 tempt to neglect, if, when he had absented himself from his own churches, he should go jto any other. — This curious etiquette he strict- u!y observed, and we passed a Sabbath, contra- j ry, I fear, both to law and gospel. In the fullness of his heart, our divine has I given us an invitation to dine with him at his i parsonage on Thursday next. I expect infinite . entertainment from the party ; and you may I depend, by the succeeding post, to receive j the best hash of it which the cookery of my I pen can aftbrd you. In the mean time, and at all times, I remain Yours most affectionately^ LETTER XLIV. The visit is paid, and more than answered the warmest expectations v.hich could be formed in its favour. Our reverend host had insisted, not a la mode de Scarron, that each of his guests should bring his dish, but that they should individually name it This easy preli- minary was readily complied with, and it was my lot to give birth to as excellent a plumb- 168 pudding as ever smoked upon a table ; wlucli^ from ray adoption, he is resolved, in future, to call a Littelton. You see what honours wait upon me, and to what sohd excellence my ti- tle is assimilated. F had named a goose, which he immediately christened after its god- father, who did not quite relish the joke, and could hardly force a laugh, when the rest of the company were bursting. The whole meal was a very comfortable one ; and the doctor produced ws no small quantity of very tolera- ble wine ; his punch was grateful to the nos- trils; but he had made it in a large pewter vessel, so like a two-handled chamber pot, that my resolution was not equal to the applying of it to my palate. On its being observed that he must have ta- ken no small pains to procure all the good things before us, he declared that no trouble had attended any one article but the pudding, which, he said, had almost destroyed a pair of black plush breeches in riding round the coun- try to learn how it should be made in perfec-* tion. •* You cannot be Ignorant, my lord,'* continued our divine, addressing himself par- ticularly to me, " that a plumb-pudding is no- thing more than a pudding, however it may be cpmposed, with plumbs added to other ingre- dients; but, apprehensive that the ordinary , 169 bkill of our homely kitchens, in this particular, might not be agreeable to such refined palates as yours, I resolved to traverse the whole neighbourhood, in order to obtain all necessa-, ry intelligence. Every learned person to whom I applied, agreed, as your lordship may sup- pose, in the essential articles of flour and water, milk and eggs, suet and plumbs, or rai- sins; but the variety of otlier articles, which were severally recommended, filled two pages of my memorandum-book, and drove me al- most to despair. In the multitude of counsel- lors I did not, according to the proverb, find wisdom, but contusion. I was successively, alternately, and separately, advised the addi- tion of rum, brandy, wine, strong beer, spices of every sort, chopped liver, and Holland's gin. With this loud of multifarious intelli- gence, I hastened to the market-town, furnish- ed myself with every ingredient my own little storehouse did not possess, and returned home jaded, fatigued, and my pockets laden with the produce of all quarters of the globe. But another important labour," added the doctor, '* succeeded, in the consultation about the choice and due mode of applying the hoard of grocery and variety of liquors, which were displayed in form on the kitchen dresser; it l\vas a solemn business, Jor the lord had com' H I7(y mandedit. Consultation, however, begot dif- ference of opinion, and difference of opinion brought on dispute ; so that I was at length obliged to interpose my authority ; and, to shorten the business, I ordered all the various articles, consisting of more than a dozen in aiumber, to be employed without favour or af- fection. The motley mixture was accordingly made ; and as every person consulted seemed to agree, that the longer it boiled the better it would prove, I ordered it to be put into the pot at midnight, and sent for a famous nurse in the neighbourhood to sit up with it, and, with a vestal's vigilance, to keep in the fire till the family arose. In this state of concoc- tion the pudding remained till after the arrival of this good company, who, I hope, will be so prejudiced in its favour, from the Herculean labour which produced it, as to attack its cir- cumference with Herculean appetites." Here ended the cuhnary oration, and, as I before observed, the subject of it contained unrival- led excellence ; and, though we laughed at it and over it, we did not fail to cause a very ap- parent diminution of its ample dimensions.— Thus, my dear friend, we ate and laughed, and drank and laughed, till night stole impercep. ■ libly upon us ; when our hospitable host in- '' formed us, that he had two beds and a cradle j in in his own house, and that he had prepared three others at two neighbouring farmers; so that we might be at rest, as to our lodging, nor Uke him, encounter the perils of a dark- some night. The squires, added he, must ad- journ to my neighbours ; my two beds will serve the peer and the baronet, and I myself will take to the cradle. Now, this cradle, which caused us no little mirth, and will, I presume, have a similar eflfect upon you, who are acquainted with the huge figure which was to occupy it — this cradle, I say, is a most excellent moveable for a small house. It is made of a sufficient size to hold an infant six feet in length, can be placed any where, and will enable an hospitable spirit to supply a friend with a lodging when his beds are en- gaged. Ifl had not been fearful of affronting our divine, I should have indulged my curious fancy by going to roost in it ; but the best bed I was prepared for me, and the fine Holland sheets, which, probably, had not been taken 1 out of the sweet-scented press for many a i month were spread for my repose ; nor would my slumbers have been suspended for a mo- 1 ment, if the linen had not produced so strong I an effluvia of rosemary, that 1 almost fancied I myself in a coffin, and wrapped in a vvinding- ' sheet. But fatigue soon got the better of fan- 172 cy ; and I awoke the next morning to life and spirits, but not to immortality. Before I bid you adieu, permit me to add a singular example of complimentary repartee, which our friendly host, very unexpectedly, addressed to me, previous to our depnrture. As I was looking out of the parlour window, from whence nothing is to be seen but a black dreary heath, he asked me how I liked the prospect. I answered, that, from its wild ap- pearance, \i Nebuchadnezzar had been doomed to pasture in his environs, he must have died for hunger. And if that prince, replied the doctor, had been sentenced to have passed bis savage years in your park at Hagi.y^ he need not have regretted the loss of a throne, or wished a return to the enjoyment of his hu- man functions. — At this period of self-impor- tance, which, in the very description, returns upon me, you cannot be surprised if I take my leave. — Adieu ! LETTER XLV. MT DEAR , It gives me no small satisfaction to be as- sured, that my two last letters have afforded you the satisfaction It was their office to com- mvinicate. The rural divine plays a most ad- irs mirable part in the jovial interludes of provin- cial society. It is a pleasant circumstance to meet occasionally with a man, whose humour, sense and foible, are so blended, that while he.possesses the pleasant mixture of simplici- ty and vanity, which bars him from distinguish- ing when you laugh with him or at him, you may give a loose to the whole of your mirth- ful dispositions, without any restraint from the fear of giving offence. — Our reverend friend told B , that he is in no small disgrace with his parishioners for entertaining so great a sinner as I am; and that one of them, who had seen me at Kidder'miiister, declares throughout the neighbourhood that I have a dovenfoot. I am not without my expectations -that equal vouchers will be produced for my tail and horns, and then the devil will be com- plete. At length, the grave and anxious occupa- tions of worldly wisdom succeed to mirth and jolUty. The interest of money, and the value of lives, together with trusts and securi- ties, are the subjects of my present medita- tions. To explain myself— I am considering a plan for easing my estate of the jointures to the two Dowager Lady Litteltons — for they are both so in fact — by making a purchase of equivalent annuities for their valuable lives. Fortune has been kind to me, and I will for 174. oiice, win your applause, by applying her gifts to sensible purposes. To use a newspaper species of portraiture, wliat think you of the picture of a young nobleman offering the fa- vours of Fortune on the altar of Wisdom, by the present Lord Littelton? Ifthis idea should be completed — and, I assure you, the dead co- louring is disappearing apace — will you place the painting in the cabinet of your mind, in the room of the picture which you designed, and have so often retouched, of that self-same nobleman sacrificing the gifts of nature to fol- ly, vice and intemperance. I trust and beheve, that a sordid thirst after money will never be added to the catalogue of my failings. It is true, that the love of play proceeds from the desire of gain; and is, there- fore, said to be founded on an avaricious prin- ciple. If this be fact, avarice is the universal passion; for I will venture to affirm, that, more or less, we are all gamesters by nature. But the desire of winning money for the sake of spending it, and increasing the joys of life, is one thing ; and the ardour of acquiring it, in order to lock it up, and render it useless, is another. Mammon, the least erected Spirit that fell From Heav'n : for e'en in Heav'n his looks and thoughts \75 Were always downwards bent, admiring more The riches of Heav'n's pavement, trodden gold, Than aught divine or holy else enjoy'd In vision beatific. I remain most truly, &c. I cannot, at present, give a correct answer to your enquiry ; but from the recollection of the moment, the only inscriptions written or corrected by my father, in the temple of Uritish worthies at Stow, are those beneath the bustos of Locke, Pope, and Sir John Bar^- nard: — but I will take an opportunity of sa- tisfying you with a more accurate informa- tion. LETTER XLVr. A- by no means deserves your pity; and the conduct which I have of late used, and shall continue to use, towards him, arises from my perfect knowledge of his character, and the remembrance of his former treatment of myself I told you long ago, when my bulrush hung its head, that, high as this gentleman then bore himself, the time would come when he would hang his head in his turn, and bend his back for me to tread upon— All this and more is now come to pas?. 176 You express your surprise that he does riot discover some degree of resentment on the occasion of his last journey to Hagley. The fe- ver of that business flushed him with no small hope, and the succeeding ague shook him with disappointment; but he had the prudence to conceal his symptoms, and I left him to cure himself. He may bluster in a guard-room with jiew commissioned ensigns, and, in the leisure of a tilt-yard duty, may weave fanciful wreaths of future fame ; nay, he may venture to give his name to the world in a newspaper, or the title-page of a miserable poem ; but the prow- ess of our hero will go no farther. If I were to bid him go to the Pomona of Hocknel for a pip- pin, he would not hesitate a moment, and would burn his fingers, willingly, in roasting it ; and, when I had eaten the pulp, he would content himself with the core. All this my Tittle Greek exactly knows; And bid him go to hell, to hell he goes. If, however, your obstinate humanity should look towards such an object, have a little pa- tience, and he will give you an opportunity for the full exercise of it. — I am in the secret; but I shall not gratify his vanity by betraying it. After all, I find him convenient, and to my purpose. He is ready, submissive, and not 177 without amusement. If he were to die, I should say with Shakspeare, /com/o^ ha've better spar\l a better man. At this moment, he is sitting on the other side of my table, in the act of making some of his own bad poetry worse, in which agreeable business I may perhaps be kind enough to give him some assistance. You would not, pro- bably have suspected him in so close a vicini- ty to me ; but it is the fact ; and when I have folded up my letter, be shall enclose it in its envelopcy and set the seal to this certificate of his own good quaUties ; nay, I will make him direct it into the bargain. Your pence, it is true, will suffer for this whim of mine, but the revenue will be a gainer; a circumstance which must satisfy you as a patriot, on the tru- ly political idea of making foHies productive to the state. You may observe, hov/ever, and with some reason, that every one should pay for his own. To such a remark I have nothing to answer, but that I am Your sincere and faithful, Stc, LETTER XLVII. I SHALL expect you with impatience, and anj much flattered that you can leave the society H2 178 of your friend C— for the sake of yielding to my solicitations. Is it beyond the reach of your influence to persuade him to accompany you ? I am apprehensive, that he may have some scruples in being a guest of mine ; but, if he will accord me that honour, I will assume the virtue, though I have it not, and he shall find nothing chez tnoi which shall give the least offence to tlie tranquil purity of liis cha- racter. Perhaps you will be my guarantee upon the occasion. We were at Eton together, though not in any particular intimacy ; and since that time I had once the pleasure of din- ing with him. I happened, by chance, to be present when he proposed to give an Etonian dinner ; his politeness led him to invite me, and the party was most pleasant and classical. A particular circumstance of it I shall never forget. One of the company, who had done honour to his table by indulging a very vora- cious appetite, when the desert was served ; thought proper to recollect the deficiency of a dish of fish which had been promised him, and, in the true vein of gorged disappoint- ment, reproached your friend for his forget- fulness. The reply was singular, affecting, and to the best of my recollection, as follows: . — " When I met you this morning," said Mr. C- — , '*I was proceeding to Temple bar for 179 the purpose of expending an allotted trifle on a turbot ; but, a few minutes after, I received an unwilling application from a very distressed person, to whom a guinea was far more neces- sary than the addition of one particular dish to a plentiful dinner would be to you, and you very well know the strict regulations of my exchequer. It is true," continued he, " that you have lost your fish ; but it is equally true, that, from tlie same cause, a poor unfortunate fellow-creature has lost his despair. Besides the relish of the turbot must have long been superseded on your palate, and I have added a pleasure to my heart which will last forever." He expressed himself with much more ease and simplicity than I have done ; and I was so affected, that, had 1 then enjoyed my present affluence, I should have instantly subscribed to hospitals, and gone about in search of doing good. But, alas! these thoughts, morally- speaking, of my better days, have been ren- dered fruitless in the succession of evil habits j and I know not where I shall find a restora- tive, unless the society of your friend should renew its former influence over me. Another circumstance of a very different nature, occurs to me from the recollection of that day's pleasure. Poor John Darner was one of the company. He has made a strange 180 exit in a stranger manner. We were at Eton and in Italy together, and at subsequent peri- ods, in the habits of friendly connexion. Few of those who knew him have been more gloomily affected by the melancholy event than myself. I have been informed, that the king has exerted his royal influence to pre- vent the publication of Duvid Hume's posthu- onoiis treatise in defence of self-murder. I am well convinced that his Majesty has acted with his accustomed regard to the welfare of his people, in procuring the suppression of a work dangerous to society, and in direct opposition lo evangelical precept; but, for my own part, I cannot conceive that any man, in this period of the world, could ever be argued into put- ting a willing end to his existence, unless some circumstances of ill fortune, some malady of the mind, or some torturing disease of the body, more than co-operated with the argu- ments of the reasoning fatalist. Montesquieu does not write like himself upon the subject ; and Rousseau, who seems purposely not to an- swer his own arguments in favour of suicide, defends it with sentiment instead of reason. Many examples are given in the works of dif- ferent writers, of amazing coolness in the act of self-destruction, which represent the stroke as having been given in youth, health and pros- 181 perlty. I caniiot trust to appearances in these, or any similar examples ; nor can I believe that the "inens sana in corpore sano, with the com- forts of life, ever could submit to an act of such dreadful uncertainty. I have, sometimes, ta- ken up the argument in favour of self murder, by way of supporting an opinion, exercising a talent, or convincing a fool; but 1 will honest- ly acknowledge, that the weakest of my an- tagonists have ever got the better of me on this subject, though I might not, perhaps, pub- lish my conviction. Virgil's picture of the after- misery of those whose hands have given a pre- maturity to their end, would stagger the ut- most sophistry of erring reason. Quam vellent sethere in alto Pauperiem pati et duros perferre labores ! Despair, as it arises from very different and opposite causes, has various and distinct ap- pearances. It has its rage, its gloom, and its indifference ; and while, under the former its operations acquire the name of madness, un- der the latter it bears the title of philosophy. — Poor John Darner was no philosopher, and yet he seems to have taken his leap in the dark with the marks both of an epicurean and a stoic. He acted his part with coolness, and sought his preparation in the mirth of a brothel. 182 This is an awful subject ; and, in casting my eye over what I have hastily written upo . it, I observe some inaccuracies which I should be glad to correct. But it is not my office, nor is it in my pretensions to instruct you. — When you are here, I will amuse you with a pamphlet, which, without that particular view, is a com- plete physical, or rather anatomical, reply to those who defend the right of self-murder. It is a treatise on the Ganglions of the JSfervea, by a Dr. Johnstone, a physician in my neighbour- hood. It is written with the pen of a scholar, and possesses throughout a most perspicuous ingenuity. This gentleman attended my fa- ther in his last illness ; and was not only his physician, but his confessor. Your letter to me consists of four lines, and I have returned as many pages. This kind of illegal interest is not after my usual fashion; bur your kindness deserves a hundred fold from Your affectionate, &c. LETTER XLVIII. You are not the only one of my many criti- cising friends, who have expressed their sur- prise at my taking so kindly to the Surrj/ DeU, 183 and becoming so dead to rural magnificence, as to neglect ffaglei/'s gaudy scene and proud domain. C H , in one of her visits to this place, told me that I looked like a toad in a hole. Be that as it may, it is shady, elegant, convenient, luxuriant and snug ; a term pecu- liar to English comfort, and not translated into any other language. Besides, a villa is a ne- cessary appendage to that rank whose dignity you so often recommend me to maintain ; and in what spot could a British peer find a more delightful retreat than mine, to solace himself in the interval of pubUc duty ? Or where is the Mgerian grot, in whose auspicious solitude he could better hold his secret counsels with the guardian genius of his country? But, badinage apart, its vicinity to the metropolis is one of its princip^il recommendations; and, to a man of my tendencies, a cottage at Pimlico is pre- ferable to a palace in the distant counties. Here I find no inconvenience in a rainy day ; the means of dissipating a gloomy temper are within my beckon. If I wish to be alone, I can shut my gates and exclude the world; or, if I want society, my post-chaise will quickly bear me hence, or fetch it here. On the contrary, Hagley, which is, certainly, an Elysian scene, uniting in itself grandeur, beauty and conveni- ence, does not possess any of these advantages; 184 and I might die there oi ennui, before any thing like the necessary remedy could be found. In that spot, all delightful as it is, I cannot enjoy the advantage of the society which I prefer;^ nor, when I am tired of company, is it possible for me to be alone. The neighbourhood is ex- tremely populous; manufacturing towns sur- round me on all sides ; turnpike roads environ me ; and tlie prospect from every window in my house glares with such a varity of intrud- ing objects, that I have been often thankful to the shades of night for giving me to tranquillity and to myself. Besides, the parish-church is in my park ; and I have, more than once, awoke from brilliant dreams, by the cackling of gossips in full trot to a christening; nay, I have sometimes shuddered to see on my splen- did lawns, the dirges due and sad array of the rustic funeral.— But this is not all. Coaches full of travellers of all denominations, and troops of holiday neighbours, are hourly chas- ing me from my apartments, or, by strolling about the environs, keep me a prisoner in it. Tlie lord of the place can never call it his for a day during the finer part of the year. Nor am I proud, as others have been, of holding myself forth to the complimentary envy of those who come to visit it. My pride is not of that complexion ; and the consciousness of 185 possessing the first place of its kind in Europe, is a sufficient satisfaction to me, without show- ing any preference to it as a rural residence. The little spot from whence I have the plea- sure to address you, has won my fondest at- tachment. H left me this morning. We passed the whole of yesterday evening in searching into the nature of the soul, and con- triving ways and means for the final dissolution of the world. We are, neither of us, qualified to make any great figure in astronomy or me- taphysics ; nevertheless, we became very fa- miliar with the heavenly bodies, and discours- ed, with a most imposing gravity, on matter and spirit. We exercised all our ingenuity to find out in what part of the human frame the soul had fixed her abode, but were totally un- able to make the discovery, till our friend, with his usual singularity of thought, determined it to be in every part where there is sensation, and particularly in those parts where sensation is most exquisite. But, as it is much easier to pull down systems than to establish them, we destroyed the globe, and all that it inherits, with surprising expedition. A comet was seiz- ed upon by both of us, at the same moment, as the engine to be employed in the tremendous conflagration. The contest for the originality of this idea was carried on, with equal zeal be- 135 tw^en us, for some time, which my antagonist concluded by introducing another very inter- esting subject for enquiry ; whether the grdat i day of judgment was to precede, accompany, or follow this great event of the world's disso- lution? In the course of his harangue, he rose to such a fervour of thought, delivered such forcible language, and intermingled such strik- ing expressions from the Scriptures, that he grew pale beneath his own conceptions. The alarm was contagious, and made my blood curdle in its veins. I verily believe, if a rat- tling thunder-storm had immediately followed his oration, that our confusion would have beevi too serious to have admitted of an acknowl- edgment. The two ladies, who composed our audience, were thrown into such a terror of mind, that I began to apprehend the evening's amusement would have concluded, in sending two handsome and useful women to the Mag- dalen. My house, with all its advantages, is not calculated for the actual work of contri- tion, though it may prepare the way for it; and if such a scene of repentance had really happened, it would have constituted an zera in my life, sufficient to seduce the attention of mankind from all the past singularities of it. I remain, 8ic. LETTER XLIX. MY DEAR , I HAVE obeyed your commands, and read, with a very continued attention, Des Recher- ches sur le Despotisine Oriental. The author is a person of considerable erudition, active thought, and lively imagination. He steers his vessel with no common address on the ocean of conjecture, and I have beheld his course with much admiration. But though he may help to forward an advanced progress in infi- delity, I cannot flatter him with the supposi- tion that he alone has ever made an infidel. The paradox of primitive Theocracies, I be- lieve, is not a new one, though he may have given it a novelty of examination, and branch- ed it forth into a variety of new ramifications. A writer, who strikes at the very root of sa- cred history, which has been an object of faith to so great a part of the more enlightened world, for such a course of ages, and possesses the support of collateral tradition, as well as a supernatural strength of internal evidence—- such an author, I say, should produce some- thing more than hypothesis, though supported by the most colossal strength of human erudi- tion ; nay, it may not be the least, among the many arguments in favour of the sacred writ- 1^8 ings, that nothing but hypothesis can be|| brought against them. A faith of some thou- sand years is not to be destroyed by the elabo-| pate, but artificial conjectures of a modern in-^ fidel. I will oppose to your ingenius French- 1 man the learned Mr. Bryant, of our own coun-| try, whose late splenrlid publication is an ho-' nour to our age and nation. The Gullic infidell must sink into nothing before the veteran abi-| lities of our English believer. — These casual I thoughts, my dear friend, are my own ; and you I may be assured, that I have not stolen them^ from any pious page of my father's manuscript | lucubrations. I But 1 shall quit a subject, which is not in' the ordinary line of my enquiries, and whereon' I can only hazard a few occasional thoughts, from the uninformed reflections of the mo- ment, to thank you for the very judicious and elegant manuscript which you have entrusted to my perusal. It has all my praise. The dia- logue is natural ; the language chaste ; the charactersfinely discriminated ; the sentiments admirably appropriated ; and the moral, if I may use the expression, irresistably proposed to the business and bosom of the reader. I will hope, that you will continue to gild your leisure hours with such delightful amusements, and that your philanthropic spirit will give them to instruct and improve mankind. \B9 What think you of bringing Mrs. Montague ind Miss Carter upon your charming theatre ? The similarity of those ladies' characters in iome points, and their dissimilitude in others, ►vould be finely portrayed by your pen, and night give you an opportunity of determining he just merits and standard of a literary fe- naie. The one is an highly instructed, accom- >lished woman, possessed of great affluence, vho indulges herself in a chaste display of ashionable as well as literary elegance, makes xer drawing-room the Lyceum of the day, maintains a luxurious hospitality for the vota- ries of that science which she loves and pa- ronizes the learning which she has herself idorned. The other, in a state of contented ■nediocrity, is humble as though she knew no- .hing, while she is not only the most learned ►voman of any age, but one of the most learned persons of that in which she lives. The pure, mblime genius, which never swerves from vir- .ue, accompanies her in the paths of rigid dis- cretion, and is contented to slumber, while its avourite votary is employed in the daily habi- ual exercise of domestic duties. This colloquy should take place between justice, accompa- lied by vanity enforcing reward and merit, attended by modesty, who will scarce suffer *n acceptance. They must be made to con- 190 tend, not for their own, but each other's genius and virtue; and the scene may conclude with a well decorated notice of that handsome in* dependence whicli the former has attached to the valuable life of the latter. The whole, in your hands, will form a most entertaining, in- structive and exemplary picture. — Forgive my impertinence, I beseech you ; — but the idea came across me, and I could not resist the va- nity of offering it to you. After all, except in some few instances, I am not very partial to literary ladies j they are, generally, of an impertinent, encroaching dis- position ; and almost always bring to my mind the Jemale astronomer, who^ after applying her nocturnal telescope for a long series of months, and had raised the jealousy, as well as the ex- pectations, of the male star-gazers, declared her only object was to discover if there were mefi in the moon. I am, with great regard And admiration, 8tc. LETTER L. MY BEAR LORD, I AM not so dull of apprehension as to be de- ceived by your elegant irony on the drawings of naked figures, which you have accidentally 191 seen in their preparation for my cabinet. As works of art, they have a claim to real admira- tion, as being exquisite copies of nature in her most beautiful and interesting appearance. This you readily acknowledge ; but seem ra- ther to hint at the very great impropriety of suffering such representations to be held forth to public view. In the application, at least, this idea of your lordship's is somewhat erro- neous; these designs are destined to be the ornaments of my private dressing-room, sane- Uim sanctorum, into which they alone are ad- Imitted, whose steady virtue, or experience of I the world, will enable them to look, without .any immoral sensation, on the works of a far more lascivious pencil than that which I have smployed. The arguments which you have directed iigainst my drawings, might be turned, with no >mall success, against the creative arts of paint- ng and sculpture. I really feel a vast weight )f matter rushing upon me; but, for your sake, 1 ' will resist its impulse, and acknowledge with I 'ou, that a different species of decoration is jnore suitable to common apartments, where j promiscuous companies of either sex and every jige are received; though a copy of Titian's ^enus, and the naked boys of DotninichinOf jrace your withdrawing-roomj not forgetting 192 the sacrifice to Priapus, which is a principal ornament of your Ubrary. — You have liad the precaution, it is true, to hang a curtain before the former, which, I do insist, by tempting the guess of curious and sportive fancies, to say no worse, is a more actual promoter of blushing reflections, than the most open ex- posure of those naked charms that are obscur- ed by it. — Indeed, my lord, yours is a false de- licacy as applied to me, and unjust as proceed- ing from one who is himself guilty of similar and even worse practices. I really should have supposed, that an enthusiasm for the fine arts, and the repeated tour of Italy, would have taughi you better. The elegantiumformarum \ spectator is a character, that 1 should imagiiiej, j would ever command your esteem ; nor could | it have entered into my belief, that you, who | look with such frequent admiration on your i fine set of engravings, after, if I mistake not, i the Duke (if Malborongh's valuable cabinet of ( antique gem>, would have ventured at an^ thing like a remonstrance on my far more in- animate seraglio. The unfledged youth, who begins to feel j an unknown something running througli his | veins, for a short time might be affected by ,ij such unveiled representations ; but to men of our age and experience, they would rather 193 serve to create iiulilTerence by continually presenting to us images of those objects, whose novelty is one of the principal causes of their influence upon us. Some of the ancient nations exhibited the difierent sexes naked to each other, in order to smother that inflam- matory sensibility of nature, which you sup- pose the paintings of naked beauty, continually before my eyes, must be capable of continual. \y inspiring.-— Upon my word, you give me a combusiible temperament which I do not pos- sess; and if you judge of me, in this particular, jrrom yourself, I give your lordship joy of the /ery great advantage you have over me. With- )ut entering further into the argument, which, f duly pursued, of a moderate letter would nake a long treatise, I shall only observe, that I he mode of dress now adopted by our wo- men of fasliion is more seducing and inflam- jnatory, and has a more direct tendency to call jorth loose aflf'ections in our sex, than any ainted representation of female beautys lough finished by the exquisite pencil of Ti- an himself Your Lordship's Fehus reposes, Uh little interruption, behind her curtain; j hile the ladies of the world unfold to every ye, that share of Iheir charms which are best ilculated to seduce it, and to fill the fancy Uh the idea of more winning beauties, whicli I 194 Ihe mantle of fashion does not, as yet, disdain | to cover. ^ I called at your door to laugh with you upon the subject of your reproof; and, though you liad taken your flight to Bath, I was resolved that you should not escape me. — Perhaps you have not heard of Cos'way^s misfortune. In a pitched battle with his Monkey he has been completely worsted, and now keeps his bed from the wounds he received in the combat. \ have, however, the pleasure to tell you, that the hand of your little Raphael has escaped' tlie fury of his antagonist, and is still reserved T() delight every lover of its art; but, as there is a grievous laceration in one of his legs, there is some reason to fear that the important strut may be lost for ever. I am, with great regard, &c. LETTER LT. I TLEAo guilty to a very trifling part of the charge which you bring against me; but I pe- temptorily deny that the accusing lady is a wo- man of virtue. Do you believe that every wife who does not advance into the guilt of adulte- ry is a virtuous character ? Is it your opinion, that every unmarried lady who does not keep 195 a handsome footman, or make an occasional retreat into the country, to drink asses' milk for a dropsy, has a right to boast of chastity ? Alas ! Sir, 1 know many of these, and hear daily of more, who, though they have not been guilty of what is pre-eminently called a crimi- nal deviation from the nuptial vow, or virgin honour, possess more unchaste minds, than many of those forlorn wretches, who gain their daily bread by the miserable trade of noctur- nal prostitution. Your artful, angry, or disappointed relation — for I have not yet decided which of these epithets is most applicable to her present si- tuation — makes out a strange and horrid story from the ordinary occurrence of an accidental half-hour's tete-a-tete. I found her, par hazard^ alone, and in those spirits which seemed to ask for that kind of libertine badinage, which in her more sober humour would not have been exerted. The idle raillery was parried by her with much skill and coquetry ; she neither re- tired into another room, nor rung for a ser- vant to show me the door, or even discovered a gleam of disapprobation by a moment's gra- vity. On the contrary, she pressed my longer Stay, and, at my departvu-e, reproached me for the nifrequency of my visits. But, stung with the mortification that her upbraidings were 196 thrown away, (excuse, I beseech you, the ne» cessary vanity ot" my justification) she has thought proper to cry aloud against me, to re* venge what she might consider as a neglect, or perhaps, to make the world believe that she was still capable of inspiring such a vio- lence of passion, which, in her history, so irre- sistibly impelled me to make an adventurous attack upon her virtue. It really concerns me, that you should be, at once, the engine of her malicious rage, and the dupe of your own amia- ble credulity. Her threats, though they were to take her own shape, would not alarm me; but she knows loo much of the wicked world to put them in execution— believe me, my friend, she will not give her many enemies such advantage over her. I shall plead guilty, in a more general man- ner, to another charge which your accusing Spirit has brought against me — that I have a decided ill opinion of our cotemporary women in high hfe. The corruption of the present times is in no degree so strongly marked as by the modern profligacy of female manners. Examine the catalogue of those ladies, whose rank, beauty, accomplishments or fortune, give them an influence in the great world, and then tell me what you think of the present state of superior female character. Is their 19! rank employed to give an example to the in* ferior orders? Is their beauty exerted in the various services of virtue ? Are their accom- plishments exercised in confirming and pro- longing the duration of virtuous affection? And is their fortune taxed with relief to po- verty, encouragement to arts, or protection to science, otherwise than in subservience to the caprices of fashion? Is a simplicity of charac- ter visible in female youth after fourteen years of age ? And does not the reign of coquetry commence before, and oftentimes long before that period ? Trace the course of fvishionable education from the cradle to the altar; examine with attention the efforts and views of mater- nal tenderness in the circle of your own socie- ty; and tell me where is that perfection of fe- male character to be found — for it might every where exist — which can awe the most disso- lute into respect and admiration. You must very well know that the passion of the most impassioned, is very rarely inde.ed so irresisti- ble, as to inflame with the design of carrying the fortress of chastity by a coup de tnain; and when such attempts are made, it is some visible breach in the out-works which encourages to that fierce mode of conquest. A chaste virtu- ous woman is an awful character; something supernatural seems to surround and shroud her from the profane approaches of seduc- tion. — Innocence may be seduced, and igno- rance may be deceived ; but chastity, founded on the firm basis of pure virtue, holds forth to the eye of the most artful, as well as the most rampant lust, the repulsive evidence of im- pregnable security. You must well remember where we dined together not many weeks ago ; nor can it have been possible for you to forget the friendly apprehensions which our hostess expressed, lest the House of Commons should detain Mr. — — , as she was sure Lady would not be in tolerable humour if he vi'as not of the party. At length, however, they both came, were carefully placed together at table, and seemed in perfect contentment. Now, all this pretty business was managed in chaste society, and in a virtuous house ; nevertheless it appeared to me, that the mistress of it, even in the pre- sence of her daughters, did little less than promote the progress of adultery. This, you see, is so common an arrangement, that Mrs. , who holds herself forth as a woman of renowned discretion, considered it as a matter of course. I wonder much that you will sufier such rare virtue, as dwells in that most amia- ble woman whom you possess, to risk the taint of such societies. I would forgive the artifice of dress, and the little hypocrisies of personal decoration ; they 199 originate from a desire to please, and can ne- ver produce any fatality of deception: but the wearing a mask tipon the mind, and the giving a fallacious appearance to character, is a for- gery that becomes, oftentimes, more fatal to happiness and honour than a crime of the same title which never finds mercy. How many wo- men are there now flaunting about our world, who have made use of the falsest pretences to obtain a settlement and a husband; and when they have succeeded, not only throw aside the painted veil which covered them, but laugh at the poor hapless dupe who reproaches their duplicity! They daub their tempers o'er with washes As artificial as their faces. and while some of them condescend to appear charming, both in mind and person, to all the world, poor Benedick, who possesses the envi- ed privilege of going behind the curtain, alone sees the decomposition of that beauty and vir- tue which leaves not a look or a wish to please behind them. That excellent woman, wliom you hare the supreme happiness to call your own, is, as I have been told, the only one of her sex who deigns to say a word in my favour. The rea- son, my dear Sir, is evident; she is the only one I know who possesses a .suflicient share of 2GQ real intrinsic virtue, to keep me, in her pre- sence, in the most patient and satisfactory de- corum. Those charms which, while they al- lure, correct, and while they delight, improve, are of rare growth ; and it becomes the inter- est of a corrupt world to employ itscontagion to their destruction. This is a language which you might not expect from such an incorrigi- ble sinner as I am ; but beheve me, it is that of all the tribe, when reason resumes her lucid interval; and if the women of coquetry, vani- ty, and intrigue, knew how much their most devoted, admired, and familiar favourites, at times despise and speak of them, they would have recourse to the sincerity of virtue, to ob- tain honest praise, real admiration, and solid pleasure. It will afford me no small satisfaction to hear that I have laid your spirit of censure, and that, on this subject at least, it will haunt me BO more ; for, thoagh public severity hardens me more and more against public opinion, I should ever wish to justify myself to you, when I possess any means of justification. You will do me the favour to present my very sin- cere respects to Mrs. — -, and receive the Your faithful, &c. 201 LETTER Lir. 1 WISHED, for many reasons, that you could have accompanied me hither ; but another is now added to the number, by an unpleasant indisposition that has hung upon me for some time ; and, though it does not keep me at home, it deprives me of any and every enjoy- ment when I go abroad. I want you to con- sole me, to assist my present tendency to grave speculations, and to behold me an example of your favourite proposition, that man is a super, stitious animal. A being continually agitated by hopes and fears, is naturally disposed to consider every trivial occurrence as an omen of his good or evil fortune. — The hot and cold fits of life, from one or other of which we are seldom free, keep the mind in that tremulous state of suspense which makes reason subser- vient to the sickly power of imagination. Com- mon superstition is awakened by the eager pursuit of the most common objects, and is particularly visible in those who attend upon the nightly orgies of the god of game ; where the force of lucky and unlucky omens, is strongly as well as universally impressed. Women, and men who resemble wcrmen, are supposed from extreme fear of disappoint- ment, to be very generally disposed to the ha- 12 202 bit of drawing idle consequences from every trivial event. But wherefore do I venture an imputation against the weaker sex, or the less resokite part of my own, when a moment's re- flection convinces me that the strongest mind cannot always resist the same influence ; and that it is not in the utmost perfection of human nature to boast a perfect superiority over it. The wide extent of antiquity is full of it; the flight of birds, and the entrails of beasts, de- termined the fate of kings and the prosperity of nations. The vision of the night, and the awakening hour, gave a colour of good or evil to the succeeding day; and the unwieldy code of proverbial wisdom is indebted for its bulk to the liberal aid of pregnant superstition : nay, were I to explore the modern and more ra- tional system of late ages, it would only be tracing a more extensive chart of human cre- dulity. This propensity of the mind, which is trifling and transitory in the course of ordinary occur- rences, becomes a grievous and oppressive weight, when, from the frowns of fortune, or the languors of disease, it passes from this world to another. When the frame begins to discover symptoms of decay, when its pains and debility fix the gloomy idea of an eternal separation upon a mind unused to similar, or, 2€)3 perhaps, any serious contemplations, there 13 no alternative but stoical apathy, or fanciful superstition. I am not disposed to admit the possibility of the former, or, at least, it is be- yond the reach of my nature to attain it; I must therefore, submit to the latter, and endeavour to shelter my weakness under that of all man- kind in all ages of the vi^orld. Will you believe me, when I tell you that in a morning's ride, which conducted me by some of the tremendous fires employed in the ma- nufactories in my neighbourhood, I shuddered at the sight of their angry flames, and expres- sed my sensations to the young lady I accom- panied, in such a manner as to make her cheek as pale as my own ? It has been observed by some wicked wit, and I believe by Voltaire — for the thought is of his cast — that, on the morning of the thirtieth of' January, every so- vereign in Europe rises with a crick iri his neck. Now you may apply this idea, for your amuse- ment, to the alarms I have just described. I am sinner enough to justify the application, and am at present humble enough to acknow- ledge the truth of it. The same shrewd ge- nius declared, when he was out of humour with a certain race of kings, que tons les Bour- bons craignent le diable: nevertheless — fori am determined to be even with him — if anv ere- 204 dit is to be given to general and uniform re- port, the lively satirist was himself subject to certain fits of despondency, when he suffered severely from similar apprehensions. Mors vi* stans numina majora fecit. Tranquillity, I am told, is absolutely neces- sary for the restoration of my body ; but, in submitting to the proposed remedy for my corporal infirmities, I shall certainly acquire all the horrors of intellectual disease, if you do not hasten to console me. If you refuse me your temporal comforts, I shall be under the necessityof applying to the Rev. John Wesley^ who, according to the Birmingham paper, is preaching about the neighbourhood, to assist me with his spiritual elixir. was here last week, and happy beyond expression in the full enjoyment of rural luxu- ry ; but the beautiful scenes w^hich filled his mind with such mad and mortifying delight, are viewed by my jaundiced eye, with less than indifference; — though when he exclaimed, Rura mihi, et rigui placeant in valiibus amnes ; Fkimina amem sylvasque inglorius ; a moment's feeble inspiration enabled me to add. •O ubi caropi.. 205 Sperchiusque, et virginibus bacchata Lacanis Taygeta ! Adieu, and believe me, &c. I have this moment received at letter from , vvliich proves him to be the most un- grateful villain in existence. This conviction has, I believe, forced an unexpected glow upon my wan countenance. It may be for the best, that my immediate indisposition prevents me from honouring the rascal with a reproach. LETTER LIIL JIT DEAIl , The letter, which I had the pleasure of re* ceiving from you yesterday, afforded me all the satisfaction I had so much reason to ex- pect from it. But as every good in this world must have its alloy, it was accompanied by one of those half-dictatorial epistles, which, under the colour of friendly concern, and in the garb of respectful language, contains no small de- gree of concealed impertinence. A certain relation of mine never fails to pester me with a few of them, whenever I happen to be in his debt. I had rather pay him ten per cent, if he would spare his counsels, than have the loan 206 without interest and encumbered with them. But this is not all ; for I am obliged to play the hypocrite against the grain, to acknowledge his goodness, to promise amendment, andso on. The last fam jaunt ended unprofitably ; it emptied my purse, led me into difficulties, and made me dependent where dependence is particularly painful ; to which may be added some scurvy treatment, which I do not like to think oi', and am sorry has got abroad. ought to have cut the bully's throat, without hesitation ; but he was a tranquil spectator of the business, and had not the gratitude to risk his own pitiful life to save my honour. When I seriously reflect on the miseries of dependence, by whatever name it may be dis- tinguished, I cannot but admire the prudence, and envy the disposition, of those men who preserve themselves above it. I am convinced, that no man can be happy or honourable, who does not proportionate his expenses to the means he possesses; and if the phrase is sig- nificant, that describes the man who pays every body, as above the loorld, he, who has disabled himself from pursuing the same conduct, must submit to the abject idea of being beneath it. If your creditor is a shoe-maker, and you can- not discharge his bill, whatever your rank may be, he becomes your superior ; and the mo- 2or ment you put it out of your power to pay a servant his wages, he becomes your master, and you must not only submit to his imperti- nence, but connive at his frauds, in order to prevent tliis Uveried creditor from making his demands, I tell you honestly, that the galled horse winces on the occasion, and that my withers are most severely wrung. I feel the grief so sensibly, that, if I had an amanuensis at hand, I should like to patrol my library, and dictate a discourse on worldly prudence. The circumspect use of money, arising, not from any avaricious principle, but from the wise practice of applying means to ends, will keep a man in that state of independence which is the rock of life. On that foundation he can stand firm, return the haughty look, smile at the supercilious frown, give truth its due force, and scorn the embroidered lie. You have a son ; and let me advise you, while the smartings of the moment dictate the counsel, to instil into his tender mind the lasting impression of a liberal prudence, without which virtue is continually harrassed by necessity, pleasure has but an interrupted enjoyment, and life be- comes a chequered scene of agitation and dis- tress. Quaerenda pecunia primurn; Virtus post nunmos. 208 But tills by the way, — You inform me that you every day expect an increase of your family, which I very sincerely hope may prove an ad- dition to your happiness. However, I cannot but think it a great mistake to make merry over a creature who is born to the same mise- ries as ourselves, who, the first moment he draws the breath of life, is enrolled in the re- gister of death, and, from the womb, makes swift and direct advances to the grave. I am almost a convert to the practice of the Thra- cians, who wept beside the cradle, and danced around the tomb. These opinions will proba= bly preclude any proposals to me of becoming a god.father. Mrs. once did me the honour to hint something of that nature ; but I beg you to tell her, from your own experi- ence, that I am too unsanctified a person to take upon me the character of a baptismal sponsor. You will then be so obliging as to add, from me, that 1 shall ever have too sin- cere a regard for any child of her's, to procure it so ungracious an entrance into the Christian church, as I am apprehensive that it would find, were I to be the officiating usher on the occasion. I am, with great regard, kc. 209 LETTER LIV. I RECEIVE you congratulations with an un- affected sensibility; but, as your applause pro- ceeds from the partiality of a favourable repre- sentation, and not from your own immediate experience, I may, without impropriety, or any false show of modesty, to which I am not very much habituated, observe, that the part I took in the debate to which you so kindly allude, would not have been so favourably mentioned, if you had been one of its crowded audience. 1 will tell you, with great truth, that it was an important object with me to exert the full force of my mind and talents on the business of that day. 1 had directed all my thoughts to that purpose, and not only exerted a very unu- sual industry in acquiring the knowledge ne- cessary to give my opinions their due weight, but had laboured the dress in which they were to be clothed, and attentively composed the decorations which were to give the final em- bellishment. In short, I omitted no mode of study, reflection, or exercise, which might enable me to force conviction, and ravish ap- plause. But I succeeded in neither ; and, af- ter a speech of some length, I sat down, op- pressed with disappointment and mortification, Several circumstances unexpected in them- 210 selves, and untoward in their nature, co-opc rated to the fall of my pride on that day. In the morning, while I was rehearsing my part to A , by some mistake H was admit- ted to me, and not only interrupted my lesson, but, by the ready communication of his eccen- tric flights upon the same subject, threw my well-marshalled band of ideas into irretrieva- ble confusion. But this was not all ; he desired to accompany me to the house, and, in our way thither, he seized upon the bugle orna- ments of my clothes, as a subject for still more discomfiting singularities of thought; so that I was most heartily glad when my coach broke down in Parliament street, and produced a separation. The worst, however, remains be- hind. It was my purpose to follow the Earl of Shelbunie,' and in consequence of such a plan, I had necessarily pre-supposed the line of debate he would take, with the general turn of argument he might adopt, and had pre- pared myself accordingly. But all my conjec- tures proved erroneous ; for that noble lord took a course so different from my pre-sup- positions, and displayed a degree of political erudition so far beyond me, that, when I arose, tlie confusion between my prepared thoughts, and those which were suggested by the able discourse of the foregoing speaker, was so great, that, although I was not thrown into he- 211 sitation, I got so wide of the point before me, as to be called to order with great vehemence and some propriety from the opposite side of the house. This proved conjusion 'voorse con- founded ; and though I proceeded with some degree of spirit and recovery, I sat down, at length, with much self-dissatisfaction ; nor had I reason to think, from the succeeding part of the debate, that I had made any impression on those within the bar, whatever I might have done among the tribe of curious listeners with- out it. This is the true, unvarnished state of the case ; and, from the circumstances of it, 1 have formed a resolution, which, I trust, you will approve — to make no more such studied pre- paration. I will give the announced subjects all the consideration they deserve, acquire ali the knowledge of them in my power, form my general principles, and leave their particular arrangement, with the necessary shape; dress and delivery, to the circumstances and impres- sions of the moment— When a senator is to take the lead in a debate, in order to introduce a projected motion of his own, or is engaged to second that of another, he may enter upon his task with the most minute verbal prepara- tion ; but, when he is to take his casual turn, he must trust to his feelings of the moment, 212 operating upon the knowledge of the moment. If a man, with the common gifts of speech, possesses a good store of the latter, he may be soon habituated to yield himself to the former, with a certain assurance of acquiring an im- portant political reputation. In American affairs 1 have ever possessed a perfect uniformity of opinion. My doctrine has ever been, that legislation involves in it every possible power and exercise of civil go- vernment. For this principle I shall never eease to contend ; though I am forced unwil- lingly to acknowledge, that the ministerial means of supporting it have, at times, been very erroneous. But you may be assured, that, if some better plans for reinstating Great Bri- tain in the full dominion of her revolted colo- nies be not pursued (an event which humanity at first, succeeded by mis-information and later indecision, has so unfortunately delayed, but whiclr is still practicable) ministers shall hear the deep-tonedenergy of my reproach; I will lift up my voice against their timid and inde- cisive counsels. My political career, at least, shall not be marked with dishonour. 1 cannot do better, than, with the feelings of the present moment, to assure you of my most grateful acknowledgments for the regard you have shown, on so many occasions, to Your most faithful, &c- 213 LETTER LV. Indeed, ray friend, you are quite wild on the subject of eloquence. It may adorn our par- liamentary debates, but it will not save our country. It is an adventitious qualification that will do but little, unless other more substantial talents and attainments are in alliance with it. An orator, in Cicero's definition of the charac- ter, in which, I suppose, he desig-ned to com- prehend himself, combines every thing which is great in human nature ; but the mere man of words, metaphors and impudence, in which, you may tell me, I should comprehend myself, is nothing more than an useful tool in the hands of superior direction. You are very sensible, but you mistake my sense. I did not declare it to be my opinion that we had no orators among us, but that there was a melancholy dearth of real statesmen. Per- haps, there never was a period, in the annals of this or any other country, which has pro- duced more able public speakers than that wherein we live. The system of attack and defence, displayed every session in both houses of parliament, produces specimens of oratori- cal abilities which would have done honour to any lution at any period. Eloquence is a pow- erful auxiliary to great political talents ; but it 214 is nothing without them — I mean, as to any great line of national utility. Mr. Ed^nund Burke, who is a prodigy in his kind, will never make a leading statesman. 1 do not know, nor have I ever heard of any man who could de;- liver such a rapid, correct, adorned and highr ly-finished oration, as frequently proceeds from the instantaneous impulse of this gentle- man's illuminated faculties. As a scholar, as a man of universal knowledge, as a writer, he is the object of my most sincere admiration ; hut, in my opinion, he would never figure in office beyond the board of trade. Charles lox's abi- lities and elocution are of a decided superiori- ty; but, out of the senate, their exertions would be of dubious expectation. If the for- mation of a new ministry were to fall to my lot, Charles could not be engaged in a more busy part tlun is generally allotted to a vicC'treOr surer of Ireland. As for colonel B , nature designed him for the service of attack ; he is nothing but in the house of commons, nor does he figure there but in opposition. To muzzle the mastiflr, he must have a place; for, while he sat on the treasury-bench, he u^as dujnb, and opened not his mouth. Lord Weymouth is not an orator; but he delivers his go(;(i sense with a veiy becoming dignity. Thf Z>M/f «? of G— — .'s speeches are viords, nxsordsj ivords; but are ac- 215 companied with an imposing air of conse* quence, which tells you, in every look of ges- ture and expression, what the speaker thinks of himself. Lord C an orator! — Where was your reflection fled, or in what quarrel had you engaged with reason and judgment, when you made such a mistaken declaration ? Believe me, my dear friend, he possesses no- thing but a little literary, spangled kind of em- broidered politics ; pretty, decorative, and in fashion ; but without any thing like solidity of abilities, or permanency of character, I could never view him in any other light, not even when he presided at a commission, whose his. tory should be blotted from the annals of Great Britain. — Our present Palinurus is by no means deserving of that contempt, which some men, very much his inferiors in every thing, think proper to throw upon him ; and the Se- cretary for the American department ranks high among our modern politicians: — nor must Lord Shelburne be forgotten, who possesses, in a brilliant degree, the gift of utterance, and is ii perfect vade-tnecuni in politics. I bear a wil- ^ling testimony to Lord Camdai's vigorous un- derstanding; and I possess an hereditary ad- miration of luord Mansfield'^ very superior ta- 'lents and character ; but the leading lawyers, however able or learned, do not come within 216 ihe compass of our present discriminations. But all the eloquence on which you build your hopes, and all the abilities which our leading men possess, if brought into one aggregate mass of political talents, would not compose that consummate character on whom a nation might repose with confidence and security. Is there a man among us, who can claim an equal share of ministerial reputation with Mr. Pelhatn ur Mr George Greiiijille? But I must add, for our consolation, that our enemies cannot boast of any intellectual supe- riority over us ; — their mistakes have kept pace with our errors; the catalogue of their blunders is not less bulky than our own. Be- sides, we still bear ourselves like a great peo- ple ; we do not discover any marks of despon- dency ; and, I trust, we shall coutinue to sup- port our national character, to the confusion of our enemies, and the final glory of our country. I have this day been informed, that Dr. PricCf the Dr. Broron of the present day, has been formally and solemnly invited by the Congress to take upon him the formation and superintendency of their exchequer. It woulc^ gladden my very soul to hear that he was em- barked for America ; though, I fear, he is too much of a self-politician to take such a step. 217 The lubours of his tlieological accompting house would be of no small service to GreaL Britain, if Uiey were employed beyond the Atlantic This reverend gentleman, in his sad vaticinrtlions of British dovvnfal, shelters him- self beneath tlie double character of a politi- cal prophet and christian divine. If America sliould finally become independent, the pro- phet will then exult in the accomplishment of an event which he has long foretold : if, on the contrary, the power of Great Britain over her* colonies should be re established, theCalvinis- tical cant of the divine must display itself in an humble, submissive resignation to the dis. pensations of Heaven. 1 am, with great regard, &c. % LETTER LVI. HY DEAR SIR, I ACKNOWLEDGE, With a Very serious con- cern, the indecisive and sluggislj spirit of the present administration. Tiiis political temper our leading statesmen was amiable in its yigin, perhaps pardonable in its progress, but equally unaccountable and disgraccfiil, to «ay no worse, at tliis very importa.it period. The humanity of the royal breas:, co-operat' K 18 ing with the moderate spirit of his iramediale councils, and the general disposition of the nation, produced those lingering measures in *he beginning of the present troubles, which encouraged the insolence of democratic ambi- tion. If half the regiments, which have hi- therto been employed in vain, with a propor- tionable fleet, had crossed the Atlantic at the early period of American revolt, the mis-sha- pen legions of rebellion would have been awed into submission, and the numerous loyal inha- bitants would have had a strong hold to which they might have resorted for protection, in- stead of being urged, by the hopes of pre- serving their menaced property, to join the standard of rebellion, to which, by seduction, by habit, or by necessity, many of them vowed, and some of them have proved, their fidelity. This huV^iane disposition of government to- 'iVards the chjonies, which has proved a fatal error in the politics of our day, naturally led to another, which arose from the placing a confidence in, and drawing their intelligence from men, some of whom, I imagine, were as deficient in judgment as the rest were in he- nesty — I meiui the American refugees. By their suggestions ministers were influenced t) continue the inactive line of conduct, till in-, dependence was thundered in their ears, anil 219 circumstances seemed to announce that alii- ance, which has since taken place between th6 natural enemies of this country and its revolt- ed subjects. Permit me to observe, that, in the early period of tliis unhappy business, the nation at large seemed indisposed to adopt the measures of fire and sword. The people, very generally, hoped and believed, that the alternate anathemas and conciliatory proposi- tions of our acts of parliament, would have an- swered their beneficial intentions of quieting the disorders of ti)e colonies ; and 1 verily be- lieve, if, at the period to which I allude, a par- liamentary motion had been made to provide for the sending a large fleet and army, with an active design, to America, that ministerial power would h.uve met with a very numerous and respectable opposition; nor would the hu- manity of the nation at large have been satis- fied with a design which portended the slaughter of British subjects ; while faciion would have lifted up its voice against it, as be- ing framed upon the principle of extending, with drawn swords, and bayonets fixed, the powers of corruption, and the influence of the crown. I again repeat,, that at this time, there was a very general aversion in the British na- tion from entering seriously into the contest; for, even after the Americans had published 220 their separation from Great Britain, and hos- tilities were aciually commenced, the exer- tions of British valour were languid ; and the rebels, at least on the sea, gained more advan- tages than they have since done with the open alhance of France, and the secret aid of Spnin. When that unnatural union took place, the British nation underwent a pretty general and very sudden change in sentiments; and many of the most rational friends of America could no longer consider its inhabitants as fellow- subjects, when they humbly implored the ready ambition of France to support them in their disobedience to their lawful sovereign. At this period, 1 must acknowledge that my expectations were broad awake to the most vigorous exertions of the British government. I did not doubt but the genius of my country would arise and shake his spear. Alas! — one general was appointed upon a principle of re- conciliation, and he does not reconcile; — a se- cond is named, and accoutred beyond exam- ple, for execution, and he executes nothing. A third succeeds, and new expectations are on the wing. Immense expenses are incurred, the national debt enormously increased, and no substantial advantages are obtained. At length my patience is almost exhausted ; I be- gin to view the indecisive spirit of ministry in 221 a criminal light ; airl, if some promising symp- toms of a cliauge in iheir tueasures do not ap- pear at the meeting of parliament, 1 will re- peat wiiat i have now written, and much more in their very teeth. The place I hold shall not bribe me from letting loose the angry spi- rit of my reproacii ajjamst tliem. But anotlier sct^ne is opening that is preg- nant with more alarm, and may bring on a contest more trying to this nation than the transiitlaniic commoiions and the ambition of France. — 1 allude to the growing discontents of Ireland. You must too well know that there are, at this moment, thirty thousand independ- ent men in arms in that kingdom, who have erected their own standards, and are prepared either to repel a foreign invasion, or to resist domestic tyranny. The Irish have long been an oppressed people; bui oppression has not quenched their spirit, and they have seized on the present favomaiile moment to demand justice; nay, if ihey were to demand more than justice, England is not in a situation to refuse it. — Bui of these matters I shall soon be better informed; and you may be assured of being the first repository of my future and more mature opinions. This is rather a dis- heartening subject. — It demands my utmost resolution to look towards the storm which is 222 gathering in the sister kingdom. If, howevc; ^ that can be dissipated, and the bond of peace, which is ah'eady cracked be restored, my fears wil) vanish, and I shall no longer doubt but thil Great Britain and Irelajid. in spite of American rebellion, of foreign foes, of an in- decisive, timid, procrastinating ministry, and of a noisy, malicious, hungry faction, will work out their own salvation, and close the present contest with added glory. I am, Sec. LETTER LVII. I witi, endeavour, to obey your commands, and, if possible, to compress my unprepared reflections into the compass of this paper. The opposition is respectable for rank, proper- ly and abilities; but it is feeble and unimpor- tant, from the narrowness of its plans, as well as the want of a sincere confidence, a firm union, and, as I shrewdly suspect, a general political integrity in the parties that compose it. They all readily accord in opposition to the measures of government, but differ, not only in the manner, but in the time of exer- tion. They all agree to go forth against the enemy; but each distinct body follows its own leader, and chooses its own mode of attack ; 223 they never unite but for the purpose of the moment ; by which means, that strong-com- pacted, lasting force, which directed to one point, and at one instant, would scatter alarm through any administration, is frittered down into a variety of desultory operations, which would disgrace the meanest ministerial appre« hension. The warmest friend of government cannot deny that in the manority there are men of sound principle and proved integrity. They are, indeed, but few in number, and may be easily distinguished from those who are influ- enced by the demon of disappointed ambition, the fury of desperate faction, and the sugges- tions of personal rancour. It has been a mat- ter of surprise to many sensible reflecting per- sons, tliat the opposition did not use every possible means to obtain the aid and counte- nance of Lord Chatham's abilities, and con- centrate, as it were, their scattered rays in the focus of that great man's character. Under such a leader they might have acted with ef- fect, and knocked so loud at the door of ad- ministration, as to have made every member of it tremble, even in the most secret and guarded recesses of the cabinet. But such a coalition was wholly impracticable, even if the veteran statesman had been free from those 224 bodily infirmities which so seldom permitted him of late to step forth to any public exer- tion. If we except Lord Camden, there is not one of the leading* actors of opposition, who has not, at some time or other, calumniated, deceived, deserted, or, in some manner, mis- treated this great man. Lord S e's orato- rialecho made his first entrance into the House of Commons notorious, by flying, as it were, at his very throat; and yet this man has been proud to bear the armorial banner at his fune- ral. The first day on which the Earl of Cha- tham took his seat in the House of Peers, the Duke of R was forced to bow beneath its reproof for insulting him. The Duke of G , who, to use his own words, had accepted the seals merely to trail a pike under the com- mand of so distinguished a politician, when ad- %'anced to a higher post, turned an angry face against the leader whom he had deserted. Even the M of R , when at the head of his shortlived administration, was vaia enough to affect a refusal of Mr. Pitfs assist- ance. The conduct of such men, though it might be despised, could not be entirely ef- faced from his mind by all the submissive ho- mage they afterwards paid him ; and though he may have since lived with some of them in the habits of occasional intercourse, you may 225 be assured, if his health had permitted a ro entrance into the public service, that he would have never engaged in the views of men whom he could not trust. The ministry, I believe, sent somewhat of an embassy to him, which he treated with contempt; and if Lord S e, in an occasional visit to Hayes, undertook a si- milar business on the part of opposition, I doubt not but the answer he received though, perhaps, more softened, had its concomitant mortification. During the last years of his ve- nerable life he seemed to stand alone ; or made his communications to no one but Lord Cumden, whom He faithful found among the faithless. Faithful only he.——— — The grave is now closed upon that illustri- ous statesman, and his splendid orb is set for ever. There was that in his character which gave him a very distinguished superiority over the rest of mankind. He was the greatest war- minister this kingdom ever knew ; and the four years of his administration form the most brilliant period that the British annals, or per- haps those of the v/orld can produce. They who aim at the diminution of his glory, and that of his country, by attributing the rapid change of national attairs, under his admini-. K2 226 tration, to chance, and the fortunate circum- stances of the moment, must be slaves to the most rooted prejudice, the foulest envy, or the darkest ignorance. To the more brilliant part of his life, let me add, that he was a minister who detested the arts of corruption, set his face against all court as well as cabinet in- trigues, and quitted his important station with unpolluted hands. It is a great national mis- fortune, that the mantle of this political pa- triarch has not been caught by any of his suc- cessors. We are not deficient in men of ge- nius, and both Houses of Parliament, give dai- ly examples of eloquence, which Home and Athens never excelled; nevertheless, there does not appear to be a man in the kingdom with that power of understanding, depth of knowledge, activity of mind, and strength of resolution, sufficient to direct our harassed empire. There are many among us who are capable of being second in command, and filling all the subaltern departments with ade- quate ability ; but the state as well as the army wants a commander-in-chief The trun- cheon is become little more than an useless trojihy, as a hand fit to grasp it is no longer to be found. In beiiring my poor testimony to the tnanes o? Lord Chatham, I have yielded to the im- pulse of my very soul. In this imperfect act 227 of veneration I can have no interest, for the object of it is gone where the applause of this world cannot reach him; and as I ventured to differ from him when aUve, and deUvered the reasons of my difference to his face, what mo- tive can there be for me to flatter him now he is no more ? To oppose the sentiments of that venerable statesman was an undertaking which shook my very frame. My utmost re- solution, strengthened by a sense of duty, and the laudable ambition of supporting what I conceived to be right, against the proudest names, could not sustain me. You, 1 believe, were present when I sunk down, and became silent, beneath the imposing superiority of his abilities; but I did not feel it a defeat to be vanquished by him; — nee tam Turpe fuit vinci, quam contendisse decorum est. LETTER LVIII. Your letter arrived, most opportunely, to awaken me from the slumbering ennui of a toi- lette. I was actually in the power of my valet de chambre, when it came to delight, as well as instruct me ; and I have proposed a truce with powder, pomatum and papillotes, to en- 228 courage a thought which instantaneously arose from iTiy situation, and may, in its progress, produce a suitable answer to your philosophic epistle. That very important and unexpected effects arise from the most trivial causes, is to be dis- covered in every page of history, as well as in every line of the passing volume of life. Cir- cumstances to all appearance the most incon- sequential and insignificant, have not only dipped thousands of pens in the bitter ink of controversy, produced infinite envy, heart- burning and calumny, but have also turned the plough-share and the pruning-hooklnto wea- pons of bloodshed and destruction. Turning away with alarm, from the subject at lart^c, which would be little less than the history of the world, permit me to call your attention to tiie virulent animosities which have been created, among a large and power- ful part of mankind, in different ages, by the modes of dressing the hair, wearing beards and weaving periwigs. It is a dressing-room subject, and, being arrayed in all the sattin- dignity of a robe de chatnbre, I feel myself in- spired to pursue it. It is not with any view to instruct you, that I mention the great veneration which in form- er times has been paid to the hair, but to give somewhat of order and arrangement to the 229 weighty matter under my iiiimediaie consider tion. That the tresses of pious virgins were thouglit an acceptable offering to their tute- lary goddess, is well known by every classical Student; nor is it less an ol>ject of conimon literary knowledge, that among the Greeks and Romans, the first fruits of the human tem» pies, as well as of the chin, were claimed, with great ceremony, by the altars of Bacchus, Neptune, and other presiding divinities. In later times, but in the early part of our sera, (you perceive I write as a Christian) an oath was supposed to demand instant conviction, when a man swore by his hair; and the act of salutation was never so graceful or acceptable;, as when it was accompanied by the plucking an hair from the head, and presenting it to the person who was the object of respectful at- tention. The offering the hair to be cut, was an acknowledgement of sovereignty, and an acceptance of the off"er was considered as an assurance of adoption. The cerf, or bonds- man, was distinguished by the shortness of his hair ; and the insolvent debtor, on resigning himself to the future service of his creditor, presented the potent scissars, whose instant sharpness was applied to his flowing locks, the marks of that freedom he no longer pos- sessed. Long hair being at this period the distin- 230 gulshing proof of a gentleman, and, of course, an object of great care and attention, became a subject for pulpit-sarcasm; and religious ora- tory did not fail to make the churches echo with the crime of toilette assiduity. At length, however, some of the younger clergy, sighing after the appearance of fashionable life, ven- tured upon the reigning mode, and gave a new ton to clerical Coeffiire, which was soon adopted by a long train of their complying brethren. This schism in dress caused the ecclesiastics to turn the tide of invective from the lay-work! to each other, and produced a division in the church, which drew forth, through no small period, the retaliating me- naces of damnation from the longhaired and short haired clergy. SatJit Paul, it seems, who by the perversions of his successors, has been the innocent cause of much uneasiness in the world, was held forth as having, by apostolic authority, forbidden his own sex to suffer theii* hair to fall below the shoulder, and granted the luxuriant tresses to flow only as a cover- ing for female charms. There seems to be some taste as well as wantonness in the regu- lation ; but, as I do not possess, among my many hereditary talents, the qualification to become a commentator on the sacred writ- ings, or the champion of an injured apostle, I shall take leave of the subject, and proceed 251 to another stumbling-block of offence, and an- gry source of controversy, which the human chin has so amply afforded. The respect which has been shown to the beard'xn all parts of the civilized, and in some parts of the uncivilized world, is well known to the slightest erudition; nay, a certain pre- judice in its favour still exists, even in the countries where the razor has long been om- nipotent. This impression seems to arise very naturally from the habit of associating with it those ideas of experience and wisdom, of which it is the emblem. It cannot wait upon the follies of youth ; its bushy and descending lionours are not known to grace the counte- nance of early life : and though it may be said, in some degree, to grow with our growth, and strengthen with our strength, it continues to flourish in our decline, and attains its most honourable form and beauty wdien the knees tremble, the voice grows shrill, and the pate is bare. When the bold and almost blasphemous pencil of the enthusiastic painter has aimed at representing the Creator of the world upon the canvas, a flowing beard has ever been one of the characteristic and essential marks of the Supreme Divinity. The pagan Jupiter and the graver inhabitants of Olympus would not be known without this majestic ornament. Phi- 232 losophy, till Our smock-faced days, has consi- dered it as the appropriate symbol of its pro- fession. Judaic aupei'f^Ut'ionf Egyptian wisdom, ^Ittic elegance, and Roman virtue, have been its fond protectors. To make it an object ef dissension, and alternately to consider it as a sign of orthodoxy or the standard of heresy, was reserved for the fantastical zeal of the Christian church. In more modern times, not only provincial and national, but general councils have been convened, synods have been summoned, ec- clesiastical congregations and cloistered chap- ters of every denomination have been assem- bled, to consider, at different periods, the character of this venerable growth of the hu- man visage. Infinite disputes have been, of course, engendert-d, sometimes with respect to its form, at other times in regard to its ex- istence. Kehgion interested itself, in one age, in contendiwg for that pointed form to which nature conducts it; at a succeechng period, anathemas have been denounced against those who refused to give it a rounder shape ; and to these, other denunciations have followed, which changed it to the square or the scollop. — But, while religious caprice (for religion, sorry am I to say is, seems to be troubled with caprices) quarrelled about form and shape, the disputes were confined within the pale of 233 the western church ; but, when the beard lessened into whiskers, and the scythe of ec- clesiastical discipline threatened to mow down every hair from off the face, the east soumled the alarm, and the churches of Mia and Jfri- ca took up the cause, and supported, with all the violence of argument and remonstrance, those honours of the chin that they still pre- serve, and to which the existing inhabitants of those climates offer up a perpetual incense. In the history of the Gallic church (for, by some unaccountable accident, I have some- times stumbled upon a page of ecclesiastical story) the scenes of religious comedy still live in description. — For example — a bearded bi- shop appears at the door of a cathedral in all the pomp of prelacy, and demands installation to the diocese to which he is appointed. He is there met by a troop of beardless canons, and refused admittance, unless he will employ the golden scissars they present to him, to cut that flowing ornament from his face, which they would think disgrace to their own, as well as to the religion they profess. This same history, also, is not barren of examples, where the sturdy prelate has turned indignant from the disgraceful proposal, and sought the enforcing aid of sovereign power, which has not always been able, witiiout much difficulty, to compel the reluctant chapter to acknow- 234 ledge a bearded diocesan. Olliers, unwilling to risk or delay the power and wealth of an episcopal throne for the sake of a cumbrous bush of hair, have, by the ready sacrifice of their beards, been installed amid acclamations and hosannas, as disgraceful as they were un- deserved. It may appear still more ridiculous, but it is not less true, that some of these bi- shops have compounded the matter with their refractory clergy, in giving up tlie greater part of the beard, but retaining the growth of the upper lip in the form of whiskers. The idea of a bishop en 'inoustaches must trouble the spirit of a modern Christian; but such there have been, who, in the act of sacrificing to the God of Peace, have exhibited the fierce, terrific aspect of a German pioneer. At length, the persecuted beard, which has been the object of such faithful veneration, finds in our quarter of the globe, if we except the corner of European Turkey, its only asy- lum in the capuchin cloister; unless we add the casual protection which is given to it by the fanatical Jew, or mendicant hermit. The ixig, pentie, or perm ig^ with the cleri- cal tonsure, have been the cause of as much ecclesiastical contention, as the Arian and Alhanasian schisms. The last century expe- rienced all its fury, which would not have gi- ven way to less important events, than the 235 edict of JS/hntes, and the questions of Jansenius. The former turned bigotry to a more engag. ing object, and lost common sense in astonish- ment; while the latter opened a new vent in the combustions volcano of religious discord. The first wig which is mentioned in history was the hairy skin of a goat, which the daugh- ter of Saul is related to have employed to save the life of lier husband. In a succeeding age, Xenophon makes mention of the periwig of Astyages, the grandfather of Cyrus : and de- scribes the astonishment which seized the royal boy on beholding his ancestor so majes- tically covered. Suidas and Tacitus both bear testimony that Hannibal of Carthage wore a peruke, and that his wardrobe was furnished with a very large assortment of wigs of all kinds, fashions and colours, not only for the purpose of magnificence, but also from the policy which frequently obliged him to change his appearance. The Romans, and, in particular, the fashion- able ladies of Rome, had great recourse to false hair. That of a white colour was the ton in Ovid's days; and it was imported from Ger- ojiany, where it was common. Nunc tibi captives mittet Germania crines; Culta triumphatse munere gentis eris. This courtly gallant poet is very severe 236 upon the custom ; Martial has made it the sub- ject of several epigrams; -And Juvenal charges Messalina with wearing the adscititious orna- mejii ot her head to obtain conceahnent in the pursuit of her debaucheries. The ladies of the present day may, therefore, shelter them- selves behind the greater extravagance of the female Romans. — I'he latter imported their borrowed locks from a foreign country, while the former are contented with the spoils of death in their own, and do not shudder at mingling with their own tresses, such as are furnished by the fatal hand of disease in hos- pitals and infirm ries. Louis the Thirteenth of Prance, having lost his huir, was obliged to ask, or, as he was king, I should rather say command, the comfortable aid of a periwig; and the necessity of the so- vereign cut off' all the hair of his fashionable subjects. — Louis the Fourteenth annexed great dignity to his peruke, which he increased to an enormous size, and made a lion's mane the object of its similitude. That monarch, who daily studied the part of a king, was never seen with his head uncovered but by the bar- ber who shaved him. It was not his practice to exchange his wig for a night-cap till he was enclosed by his curtains, when a page receiv- ed the former from his hand, and delivered it to him in the morning before he undrew them. 23f The figure of the great Bourbonmusi, at timei&> have been truly ridiculous But of ridicu- lous figures — had I lived in the reign of good queen Anne, my thread paper form and baby face must liave been adorned with a full-bot- tomed periwig, as large us ihat which bedecks the head and shoulders of Mr. Justice Black- stone, when he scowls at the unhappy culprit who is arraigned before him. It is, I believe, very generally known, that there is no small number of the clergy who love a little of the ton, as well as the ungodly laymen; the question, therefore, of wearing wigs, with the form of ecclesiastical tonsure, became a matter of bitter controversy ; and the first petit 7n.aitve of a clergyman, who was bold enougli to appe:u' in a wig, was called le patriarche des ecclesiastiques emperruques. At this time was puhlished, the famous book in favour oY periwigs, with the admirable title of Absalom, whose melancholy fate was caused by his hair; and I remember, in the humour- ous exhibition of sign painters, with which I think Bound Thornton amused the town some years ago, that he adopted this idea, in a re- presentation of the Jewish prince suspended in mid air, as related in holy writ, which was entitled a Sign for Peruke-makers. Tom War- ton of Oxford, wrote a little Latin jeu d^esprit «n the subject of wigs, with their applications 338 and effects, of which it concerns me to remem- ber no more than that it possessed his usual latinity and classical humour. Ifogarth, also, employed his pencil to ridicule the full-bot- toms, especially the Mdennanic ones, of the last coronation, with his accustomed success. But of the histories that relate to this subject, the most extraordinary, and which will be hardly credited by posterity, is the petition delivered by the peruke-makers of London X.6 liis present majesty, praying him, for the be- nefit of their trade, to resume the wig he had been pleased to lay aside; and, whav adds to the ridicule as well as the impudence of the measure, I have been informed, by a spectator of their procession, that a considerable num- ber of them actually wore their hair, though they openly avowed the sacrilegious wish to pluck that ornament from the pate of sove- reignty. In the Augustan age of the Roman empire, the wit and the satirist have emi)loyed their different weapons against the prevailing at- tentions to tiie decorations of the hair; and Seneca, in one of his epistles, writes, with so- lemn indignation, against the Roman toilettes, which he describes in the precise form and process of our own. Some of the fathers were equally severe against the female coquetres of their time ; as their denunciations seem to be 239 more particularly levelled at tlie fairer part of Ihe creation. One of them, in particular, de- clares, that they who employ their h.ours in arranging their hair, instead of performing the daty of Christians, sacrifice to Cotys, who is the goddess of impurity, and to l^riapus, who is the god of it. If this be true, what a more than pagan age is renewed among us ! But, to conclude my unsuspected learning on this subject, I must add the curious re- proach of Tertullian ugainst the high head-dres- 1 ses, as well as the practice of dyeing the haify so prevalent in his day. He concludes his earnest address on this subject, to the ladies, j by impressing on their attention the sacred I text, that we cannot make an hair tohite or ! blacky or cause the least addition to our stature; I and reproaches them on employing the above- I mentioned arts of the toilette to effect both these purposes, and thereby giving an express lie to the divine declaration of the gosj)el. I Petit maitreisin (excHse a new-fangled worn) has existed at all periods, in all coun- I U'ies, and in every situation. Private peace I has been disturbed by it ; and the spirit of Christianity has been lost in its contentions. It j found its way into the cloister ; it has accom- I panied the hermit in his cell ; and the Hotten- 'itot does not escape its influence ; nay, the pa- riot Eoman and the hardy Goth have conde- 240 scencied to become coxcombs; Theodoric, well known Gothic prince, is related to hav* had an officer, who, when the barber had fin- ished his beard, was employed to pluck every remaining hair from his face which might in- terrupt its smoothness, Ccesar used to say, that his soldiers fought better wlien they were' perfumed ; and according to Plutarch^ Surena, general of the Parthians, and the bravest man of the nation, painted his face. The f.rench do not suffer the most refined effeminacy of their toilettes to extinguish their gallant spirit,! and, at the command of their sovereign, they rush from all the silken softness of luxury, to the hardships of camps and the dangers of bat- tle. Whetheryou will be of opinion with me,;t|iiat man is afietitmaitre by nature, or, to express myself more philosophically, a coxcomical ani- mal, I cannot tell; but 1 have, in the course of these reflections, wrought myself so fu'ly into the belief of it, that, under the future opera- tions of my friseur, I shall look in the glass before me, with the complacent patience of a man, conscious that he is acting under the common impulse which governs all mankind. Adieu ' THE END. ^^ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS