
TLETTER I. Mr. ALWYN to Mr. HILKIRK.
Dear HILKIRK,
I HAVE received a letter from our old school-fellow Pendril, who saw you as he passed through Carlisle. I need not tell you it gave me great pleasure to hear that you still exist in health and spirits, after the chasm which your absence has occasioned in

our friendship; and though your situation, as a travelling comedian, is such as some of your old acquaintance would not be over ready to recognize you under, yet, were I weak enough to be thus influenced, the affectation in me would not only be mean, but ridiculous. My hereditary hopes do not surpass your's; and, could certain considerations be removed, I don't know but it might be more agreeable to my sentiments (call it pride if you please) to live by my own labour, than by that of the dead— I am not unacquainted with the natural hilarity and cheerfulness of your temper, and I am of opinion that (no matter what the rank in life) while the mind is cheerful, the man is happy.—Cincinnatus at the plough, it is most probable, was happier than Cincinnatus in the senate—I know you begin to suspect this grave lecture: few, I believe, preach about

happiness, till they themselves either are, or have been unhappy—I own to you I am altered. The smiles and pleasures are fled; a gloom overhangs my youth, and has shut out the sun; my health declines, and my worthy Patron—(Patron?—Friend! —Father!—all these cannot express the sense I have of his goodness) wishes me to reside in the country for some time.— I wish it myself—I cannot be easy where I am—my disorder will increase—Not that I am anxious about life—it is a comfort that, sooner or later, all our cares shall end: and no sentiment ever came with greater force to me than that which Macbeth, where the poet represents him torn and distracted with a thousand fears, thus utters:
Better be with the dead
Than on the torture of the mind to lie
In restless ecstasy.—Duncan is in his grave—
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.
Treason has done his worst, Nor steel nor poison

Malice domestic, foreign levy—Nothing
Can touch him further.
These reflections are the cordials of my life. Enough of this.

You will be surprised, perhaps, when I tell you that I have an inclination to become an actor. Hear my reasons: I must either find a means of subsistence, or live upon the bounty of others. The first is agreeable to me; the latter I can never consent to, though Mr. Stamford would supply me with the greatest cheerfulness. As it is necessary I should live some time in the country, I can think of no scheme so eligible as this; and shall be glad if you will enquire of your brother comedians, whether they are willing to admit me of the society.
I DO not mean to inform my master of my intention; none but such as I

approve need know of my situation; which, I confess, I shall be almost ashamed of: I should, however, be more ashamed to be idle; and the country affords no other source of employment to me. Our mutual and early friendship is another inducement.
SHOULD you perceive any thing im+proper, either in the application to your brother comedians, or from any other circumstance, let not this be any restraint, but act agreeably to reason and your own feelings, which will be both approved and applauded by one who is perfectly conscious of the delicacy and propriety of them, and who is proud to have the honour of subscribing himself
Your sincere and affectionate Friend, H. H. ALWYN.

LETTER II. Mr. HILKIRK to Mr. ALWYN.
DEAR HARRY,
I Received your letter, and, I believe, I need not take much pains to describe to you the pleasure I enjoy from this instance of the continuance of your attachment. The bitter has so far predominated over the sweet, during my peregrination in this vile world, that I begin already to have a large proportion of cynical essence in my composition, though not enough to overpower the pleasure I receive in Alwyn's friendship. You will readily believe this, when you recollect the avidity with which I always sought your company, and the delight I took in it.

I AM sorry to observe the air of melancholy so prevalent in your epistle—it is not natural to you. The lines of despair are marked strongly in your mind —it is beneath you—you that have tasted friendship from all, smiles from all, love from all. 'Tis enough for wretches like me, outcasts from society, to indulge the gloom: but I am above it. Is the weather cloudy? I tune my pipe; no matter where, the cottage or the palace: 'tis hard if I don't find somebody to dance.—Does the sun shine? let me enjoy the smiles of the season while I can. My music is flown to the fields, I follow it; it warbles from the thorn, it tinkles in the tears of the wandering brook, it mourns in the plaintive song of the widowed linnet—Let it—'tis music still, and music only will I bear. Does the sleet of contempt batter my face, or the biting frost of disappointment

assault my feelings?—I am prepared better than Moor, of Moor-hall, for the dragon—I have armour of iambics, a shield of raillery, and a sword of satire, more powerful than the sword of my old associate harlequin. I send a herald in the form of a goose-quill,
to hurl defiance in their teeth.
Tragic, comic, and farcical scenes are exhibited continually on the world's great theatre; their frequency has made them familiar, and I resolve henceforth to be rather a spectator than an actor: I have played the fool in the farce too often.

I AM sorry that I shall not have the pleasure of seeing you, having agreed to take upon me the management of a company that travels in the west, and being to set off, the day after to-morrow, to Taunton, in Somersetshire, whither my

baggage is already gone. I have spoken to our manager respecting your coming hither; and, from the description I have given of your person and abilities, he is anxious to see you, and declares you are the very man he wants. The company go from hence to Kendal the next week, and he is desirous of meeting you there, to open the house. Had I known your intention before I made this new engagement, I should have been happy in an opportunity of renewing our friendship personally; as it is, I must content myself with the pleasure of a frequent correspondence, which I hope you will have no objection to.
'TIS long since I have had the pleasure of your conversation; accident has continued to deprive me of it. To encourage you to a correspondence, to

which I have invited you, I will relate the history of my adventures, from a supposition that they will not prove entirely uninteresting.
JILTED by a girl, abandoned by my friend, my unprovided bark pushed from the strand by a violent passion for an unworthy object, whom yet I can scarce forbear to love, into dangerous and unknown seas, no wary pilot to direct my course, I ignorantly ran on lee shores, allured by promising appearances; and, to stretch my metaphor, presently became a wreck among savages, in a strange land.—
By the waters of Babylon I sat down and wept.

IT is now near four years since I left London and my companions; at which period I was scarce twenty, and you not above eighteen; so that though we used

to amuse ourselves in our conversation, long before, upon rational subjects, yet having little care about the future fortune of our lives, we did not enquire much into each others views. It is not the character of that age to be very solicitous about to-morrow. I shall therefore relate such incidents as are necessary to form the connection of my little history, lest it should else be unintelligible.
THERE are several circumstances in my life which, were they methodised, properly spun out, and interlarded with an episode or two between Mr. Somebody and Miss Any-body, would furnish the circulating libraries with two handsome pocket volumes. The first that I shall mention, and not the least extraordinary, is, that I am utterly ignorant of my parents, or even whether I ever had a father or no. Excuse this

stale attempt at a joke, and suffer me to trifle with my miseries. I remember little of my infantine state, except being bred among fields, farm-houses, and country peasants. I was removed from these, at an early age, to a cheap school in Yorkshire, where I continued till my fourteenth year; at which period the master informed me he could keep me no longer, for that the person who had placed me with him was dead, and my board and education already ten months in arrear; but that a London gentleman had enquired if he had any boy of good intellects among his scholars who wanted a provision; that he, the schoolmaster, had recommended me, and, upon his recommendation, the gentleman had agreed to take me, provided I consented to go, which he advised me by all means to do. The idea of being freed from the fear of birch, of which our good

governor, upon every trivial misdemeanor, was as liberal as he was penurious in the articles of food and cloathing, together with the hope of seeing a city that I had heard so wonderfully described, operated sufficiently on my fancy, to make me receive this propoposal with joy. I had not, however, lived so many years with my play-mates, without having formed a few friendships among them; but these, though they cost me some tears at parting, were presently forgot in the overflowings of a rapid imagination.
I ARRIVED with Mr. Seldon, my new patron and master, in London, the latter end of October. You are not ignorant of the character of this worthy man. He took me to his house in Chancery-lane, where I underwent a long examination respecting my education.

This was a source of flattery to me. I was universally allowed the best scholar in the seminary from whence I had been taken, and, for three years past, had been little obliged to my instructors. Exclusive of the classics, I had made a tolerable stride into mathematics, and had often surprised old Declension himself with philosophical experiments, which I had learnt from two or three books, that, till I condescended to look at them, had been neglected, and thrown about the school, among other lumber. I was the more powerfully induced to these exercises by the wonder they excited, and the fame I acquired. Mr. Seldon expressed much satisfaction at my progress; and, after paying me some compliments, told me he would now recommend other subjects to my notice. The study of jurisprudence, the knowledge of the natural and

civil rights of mankind, and in what manner they are preserved or injured by the laws existing in this country, he said, would make me valuable to society; and recommended me to the care of Mr. Turnbull, a man whom I am sure you must have observed, during your intimacy at our house.
MR. SELDON was upwards of fifty, had no wife nor family, except Julia Gowland, an orphan niece, of about twelve years old, whom he had taken from a boarding-school, where he had placed her, being not only dissatisfied with the economy of the house, but likewise desirous of her company, and taking himself, in a great measure, the care of inuring her to proper habits. His turn of thinking respecting education and habit was singular, yet, in my opinion, just. Boys, he said, should

be steeped in adversity, case-hardened in misery, during their youth; it gives them fortitude to support every change of fortune; it makes them sensible of the simplicity with which man ought to live; and shows them the folly and real inutility of numberless things, which, by some, are deemed absolutely necessary to existence. It is the best school of morality to a strong mind. Girls should be made sensible how much mildness and resignation contribute to their happiness; should be taught to support contradiction with cheerfulness and smiles. This is the duty as much of man as woman; but it is the great source of pleasure to the latter. Husbands are enchanted by mildness and acquiescence from their wives; they feel their own superiority in point of strength; they fancy it in point of understanding; their free commerce with the world, which is

denied to the other sex, together with the advantages of education, tend to confirm this opinion. Youths should endure hardships, but not be suffered to sink under them. Females should be taught the virtue and necessity of a still tongue, and a smiling countenance. Such were the sentiments of a man, who proved his wisdom by the consistency of his conduct, and the order of his affairs.
THERE is in the boy and girl age a susceptibility of attachment, which we afterwards lose, though with some regret. I had not been long in Mr. Seldon's family, before Julia and I began reciprocally to feel a tender inclination; it did not immediately appear, though it insensibly increased. We delighted, as lovers do, in mutual offices of kindness; we began to sigh, to languish, as our years increased; and, before I was

eighteen, I was deeply in love. Mr. Seldon did not at first seem suspicious of the consequence, but was pleased with the simplicity of our affection. Young as I was, I had sagacity enough to make this observation, and interpreted it to my own advantage. I am become a favourite, said I, my master loves me, and intends to give me his niece. The sequel will show how wretchedly I deceived myself.
EXCLUSIVE of my passion for Julia, I was not exempted from other youthful foibles; I loved dress, but, what was worse, I had addicted myself to a habit of frequenting a billiard-table. My delight in the game soon taught me to play tolerably; and the warmth of my temper not only engaged me to sport far beyond discretion, but made me an easy prey to much inferior gamesters with

cooler heads; to which add my fondness for theatrical diversions, and my constant attendance at a spouting-club, and you will easily perceive the seeds of misfortune, which have since sprung up so thick, and the improbability of my continuing to enjoy the favour and protection of Mr. Seldon.
MR. TURNBULL, the upper clerk, whom I mentioned, from my first entrance into the family appeared to have a particular partiality for me, and had taken almost as much pains in giving me proper advice as Mr. Seldon himself, without seeming to regard my little deviations from virtue with so severe an eye: but this man's conduct has been to me inexplicable. When any extravagancy had plunged me into a difficulty that affected my temper, and made it visible, Turnbull would never let me

rest till I had acquainted him with the cause of my trouble, nor ever failed to assist me, but then, I had great reason, from several hints, more particularly from my master's behaviour, to believe that he sometimes acquainted Mr. Seldon with it.
I SHALL forbear to enumerate incidents, and only select a few, that are necessary to explain, why I so abruptly left Mr. Seldon.
I HAVE said that I frequented a spouting-club. This society was held at a reputable public house, up one pair of stairs. After I had, in compliance with the usual forms, paid for my ticket, and passed the bar, I saw one of my companions below, that prevented me from immediately going up: While he held me in conversation, I heard a voice, familiar

enough to me, enquire if Mr. Hilkirk was there; the landlady answered in the affirmative; and, turning to look who the enquirer was, I saw the back of Mr. Turnbull, passing quick out of the door. I was rather alarmed. I dreaded lest Mr. Seldon should come to the knowledge of my tricks, and I suspected Turnbull. This fear, however, presently evaporated, and I joined the roarers above, whose tragic starts, sounding thro' the ceiling, operated strongly on my imagination. It came to my turn to exhibit, and I chose that scene in Macbeth, where the bloody dagger appears in the air. I was dressed? in a habit, made in imitation of Garrick's, with shaloon and tinsel.
Banquo and Fleance had made their exit, and I was proceeding, with infinite applause, through the soliloquy: Just as I came to that place, where the hero says

to the supposed dagger, "I see thee still," my astonished eye caught the terrible form of Mr. Seldon; the effect this had upon me was evident from the audience; my knees knocked, my eyes were wild and riveted, my voice faltered— I repeated,
I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before.
The picture of terror was so perfect, that the room echoed with plaudits; but the scene was quickly changed.—I endeavoured to proceed—"There's no such thing," said I, staring at Mr. Seldon,
It is the bloody business which informs thus to mine eyes.
—
You are mistaken young man,
answered he, with the gravest face imaginable, "it is no vision." This immediately turned the eyes of the whole assembly upon my master, in a moment their serious praise was converted into the

loudest laughs, while Mr. Seldon, with the same gravity, commanded me to pull off that merry Andrew's jacket, and quit enacting of the monarch, in order to retire to my truckle bed, under the desk.— At this speech, the rafters once more trembled with the roar of laughter, which from the complexion of the gentry there gathered together, would doubtless have been augmented with catcalls, shouts, and hisses, had not the deportment of Mr. Seldon, which in spite of impudence, commanded respect, in some degree over-awed their mirth.

MY situation was truly pitiable, I uncased, and my master, with a slow voice and bow, accompanied by the most serious look of ridicule and satire, wished all the good company a very good night, while I skulked after him, more abashed than Thersites by the stern eye of Ulysses.

The next morning Mr. Seldon spoke to me to the following effect:—
By my behaviour to you last night, young man, you may be convinced I have some regard for you, I engaged in a very awkward affair, inconsistent to my character, and disagreeable to my inclination, purposely to expose your absurdity in so strong a light, that you could not help feeling it. These societies, among which I understand you are become a leading man, have an idle, ridiculous, and vicious tendency, therefore, if you desire to gain my esteem, let me hear no more of your kingly antics.

AT the moment this counsel was given, I thought I would observe it more religiously than if it had been a mandate delivered by an angel: I have only in excuse, the plea of the converted infidel,

the flesh was willing, but the spirit was weak.

MY love for Julia accelerated the catastrophe, and a match at billiards completed it. I must speak of them in order.
IT would be tedious, at least, to any but lovers, to relate the progress of love. Let it be sufficient to say, that our passion was arrived to that stage which produced mutual declarations, and vows of everlasting fidelity. Convinced, as I thought, of her disinterestedness and sincerity, enchanted by her beauty and the softness and sweetness of her manners, my affection became violent. After the above explanation, my pursuit of other pleasures was, for some time, entirely abated: her society was perfect happiness, her company and conversation, I

believed to be absolutely necessary to my existence; but, alas, I have proved the possibility of existing without them. Repeated asseverations of constancy, continual opportunities of indulging in all the languor of delicate and excessive love, which we did, as far as we could with innocence, and without discovering our passion, I had no dread of meeting opposition from any but Mr. Seldon.
WE had been so cautious, for some months after the avowal of our affection, that I had no reason to believe we were suspected: whether I was deceived in this, or whether we became less guarded, I know not; but by accident, I over-heard Mr. Seldon saying something to Mr. Turnbull, to the following effect:—
I'll suffer it no longer; I am resolved he

shall quit this family. His temper irregular, his passions untamed, he is no way calculated to make either her, or himself happy; he would be fond for a week, captious and overbearing within a month, and become completely miserable in a very short time; to suffer him to marry with his present inexperience, rashness, and want of proper habits, were more unmerciful, than to cast him into the sea.
— I hardly knew whether to apply the above discourse to myself, or not; it described Mr. Seldon's friendship for me, in so lively a manner, that I had some reason to hope it true on the one hand, while on the other, it cut me off from every prospect of felicity.

BUT what shall I say to the conduct of Julia, who, of a sudden, and without assigning any reason, became distant and

ceremonious, even to disdain, as I imagined. Instead of contrivances to throw herself in my way, which, I had before observed with pleasure, she took every method to avoid me. If, by chance, I caught her alone, she would break from me, and threaten to inform Mr. Seldon, if I persisted in detaining her. This might be prudent, but I am certain it was perfidious. It agreed but ill with her former protestations.
WHY should I torture myself to relate more of this tale than is necessary? It upbraids me, it reminds me of my weakness. My present feelings convince me, I have not yet forgotten the traitress. I must quit the subject for this time. I have raised a train of images, that do not contribute to my tranquillity. Adieu,
W. HILKIRK.

LETTER III. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. STAMFORD, Junior.
Dear SIR,
IN obedience to your commands, I take the advantage of the first post-day, to inform you of my safe arrival at Kendal. To a mind perfectly at ease, the contrast between Westmoreland and London must be very forcible. Notwithstanding the little leisure I, who am under the influence of an unconquerable passion can find, I yet cannot entirely forbear, to observe the sudden change of scene. It seems scarce an hour, since the noise of London, with her ten thousand carriages, rattled in my ears. I listen, and find myself conveyed to the region of silence. The face of the country, likewise, is as different as the most romantic imagination can suppose. No beautiful green hedges intersecting the

plain; no regular rows of stately elms, or spreading oaks, meet the eye, but uncouth stone-walls, vast wilds, and prodigious mountains. Nature appears bleak and unadorned, but grand and capacious. Here and there a straggling peasant is seen, with wooden shoes and lank hair, unconscious of what we call grace and elegance, and clothed only to defend him from the assaults of the season. Here, ever object is bleached, as it were, by time and simplicity: in London, a satirist would add, every thing is sullied by smoak, hypocrisy, and detraction. Not that I should admire either the wit, or sentiment of the expression.
MEN are naturally much the same, and, considering the vast number of them who inhabit that great city, I am often astonished at the order and tranquillity which are generally preserved. If the

people here are honester or happier, it is because they have not so many temptations. The glittering of equipage, the blaze of tapers, the inchantments of music, routs, balls, operas, gaudy colours, lewd women, decorated in all the emblazonments of art, folly, and fashion; such allurements tempt not, inflame not the imagination of the inhabitants of the wilds in Westmoreland. A small assembly among the gentry and opulent tradesmen, and the players for about six or eight weeks, constitute their highest ideas of public luxury. Neither are those wanting, who inveigh, with great warmth and acrimony, against these amusements, especially the latter. This is not wonderful, when we recollect, that great part of the inhabitants of Kendal are Quakers. They have an excellent faculty of staring at a stranger; and I was questioned to-day, by some of

the old dons, who are the only people here that think themselves privileged to ask impertinent questions, how such a good looking young man as I, as they were pleased to call me, could think of becoming a player.
MY landlord tells me, he doubts I am a wild young dog. His wife says, she is afraid my poor mother has many an aching heart upon my account; for she is sure I am some good body's son, who has had a world of trouble to bring me up. I told her that my mother is living; and she became very importunate for me to return home, and save her from breaking her heart. This conversation happened last night, and I assure you, I went to bed quite low-spirited, with her good old-fashioned exhortations. Indeed, I am so well convinced of my dear mother's tenderness, that I

am afraid her conjectures are too true. I begin almost to repent of my journey. I know no right I have, to mingle wormwood in the bitter cup of old age. However, I wrote into Oxfordshire by this post, and hope my fears are without foundation.
THERE are other reasons, why I am not the most happy mortal in the world. Forgive me, dear Charles. You know my heart. I can conceal nothing from your friendship; I should be unworthy of it if I could. Your sister's image lives in my bosom. Oh Maria!—No change of time, of place, or object, can obliterate the memory of thy charms: on the barren mountain, in the fruitful valley, musing on the gliding stream, or supine beneath the venerable oak, still shall thy welcome recollection call forth the painful, pleasing sigh of melancholy;

and cause to steal, unbid, the tear of sorrow down my cheek.
PITY, but do not blame me. I know I have no pretensions to so amiable, so beautiful an object; but who could live in the same house, and behold her angelic form, hear her enchanting voice, observe her benevolent, her soul-winning actions, and forbear to adore her? I am conscious of my own unworthiness. I know how much my kind patron has the happiness of his cherubim, as he justly calls her, at his heart. I have heard of his intentions: it has been said, there is one whom he wishes her to love. I am not to learn how dearly you, my friend, tender your father and sister's tranquillity; and it were the utmost baseness in me, to attempt to render those miserable, were it in my power, whom I have every

reason to love and revere above all the world.
NO person but you, knows my real motive for retiring from my friends. My passion was insupportable, and the peace of your family was concerned. It was painful to fly, but gratitude, friendship, and love demanded it. My present employment is unknown, and I would have it so. My health began to decline, and that was a fair pretence for going into the country. My predilection to the drama made this scheme present itself as the most probable one of diverting my ideas from the channel in which they so constantly flow; but, I am fearful, this, and every thing else, on this side the grave, will be ineffectual.
I KNOW you will excuse these effusions

from a despairing lover, and rest assured, whatever may be my fate, I will never give you cause to accuse me of insincerity.
I am, dear Sir, with the utmost respect, the most affectionate of those who have the honour to call themselves your friends.
H. H. ALWYN.

LETTER IV. Mr. HILKIRK to Mr. ALWYN.
Dear ALWYN,
I AM arrived at Taunton, and expect this will reach you at Kendal. I shall continue the relation of my adventures without any apology. I mean to draw an abstract of my misfortunes, that after having compared them with your own, you may try whether it is not possible to strike a balance in my favour. The world will say I have deserved my fate. I grant it.
GOADED by despair, stung and distracted by the continual recollection of Julia's perfidy, I became regardless of future consequences. Neglecting you and every rational friend, who, I imagined, had come to a knowledge of circumstances that hurt my vanity, I

sought to drown my sorrows in dissipation. Drinking was my aversion, and the gaming-table became my resource. My ideas of justice and honour, tho' too firmly rooted to be easily eradicated, could not entirely preserve me from the contagion that reigns in these horrid receptacles of vice and infamy.—I found myself insensibly drawn into a familiarity with acknowledged rascals. Launched into a sea of guilt, I was borne away by the tide; and, though I beheld my danger, had not strength to regain the shore of virtue.
IT had been a custom with Mr. Seldon, from the time that I was sixteen, to allow me a regular stipend, with which I defrayed my own expenses of clothes and other necessaries; the sum was liberal, considering my situation, and had received an annual increase. He had just

paid me a quarter's allowance, out of which my extravagance had brought me under an obligation to discharge a number of debts, besides leaving several others unpaid. Conscious of my weakness, as soon as I received the money, I put ten guineas in my pocket, with a resolution to disperse them immediately among my creditors, without giving myself time to hear a billiard-ball, or lay a bett. As I was proceeding upon this virtuous errand, my evil genius threw a noted gambler in my way, known by the name of Long Jack, with whom I was acquainted. He enquired where I was going. I, to prove the strength of my virtue, very candidly told him, that I was running with my ten guineas to pay my debts; and, as he was well apprised of my passion for play, asked him if he did not think me wise for so doing: to which he replied in the affirmative,

in so positive a manner, that his approbation appeared perfectly sincere; asking withal, how long it would be before he saw me at Jackson's, meaning the gaming-house, to which I usually resorted. I told him, I should hardly be there that evening, for that my present business would find me employment. Zounds, said he, that's unlucky, I have made a match for you with One-eyed Harry, the odd game in eleven for five pounds, to meet at eight. I have been to Connor's, and two or three tables to look for you; if you don't play, I forfeit a guinea to the blinking rascal. Why it is half past seven now, answered I. Aye, said he, I know it, I lost nine pounds this morning with him; however, it is no matter, b—st his odd eye, I'll have it out of him, one way or another.
I HAD seen too many of the tricks of

these worthies, not to have my doubts concerning the reality of this pretended match; and putting on one of my penetrating looks, I asked him if he was not deceiving me; but he confirmed the truth of his tale with such violent imprecations, cursing both soul and body so liberally, and consigning them over to the devil so entirely, if his guinea was not lost unless I played, that, abandoned as I believed him, and all of them to be, I did not think it possible for any wretch to have so totally quitted all sense of shame as to swear so horridly to a falsehood. He observed likewise, how much the match was in my favour; which, as he stated it, was actually the case; and that, though I might have a good opportunity of winning money upon my own play, yet, as it was entirely optional, I might sport or let it alone.

You will think me very weak and irresolute when I inform you that I could not resist the impatient longing this fellow inspired me with; but what will you say when I tell you that I had no sooner began to play, than, contemning every recollection of future consequence and shame, my money flew about the room, and I greedily snapt at every bait that was thrown out to me. Those who have never fallen a sacrifice to this infernal disease cannot have an adequate idea of its malignancy; of the pleasure that it promises, or the torture it inflicts: and those only who are acquainted with its tyranny, know how to pity their fellow-slaves.
I PLAYED with various fortune till ten o'clock, when I found myself pennyless. Stung with my egregious folly, driven to madness at the remembrance of those

to whom I was indebted, I could not be contented, but would play on upon credit. This, unfortunately for me, they willingly indulged me in, as I had ever paid debts of this kind with the utmost punctuality. Thus with my hand shaking, my mind distracted, my eyes dazzled and blinded by the disorder of my brain, did I engage to play at a game that requires a cool head, a keen eye, and a steady hand, against men who knew how to take every advantage, and for sums which I was conscious of my inability to discharge.
WHILE I was in the heat of play, and, as if inspired by the daemons of the place, abjuring every title to heaven and mercy, imprecating curses on my soul, and misery on my body, Mr. Turnbull came in. I was now arrived to that height of despair, which puts us beyond

a certain degree of fear; and the sight of him, which at another time, in such a place, would have struck a damp over me, was disregarded. Some one who knew me, and had seen the manner of my proceeding, had kindly gone and informed Mr. Turnbull of it. He perceived my situation, and desired me to put on my coat and come home; to which I answered in a resolute tone, that I would not; while the rascals that surrounded me, said, with a deal of seeming pity, that they had advised the young gentleman to play no more, for they saw he could not win; and that they thought, he had better be persuaded and leave off. This impudent lie heightened my madness to that degree, that I uttered a volley of curses which astonished Mr. Turnbull, and he immediately left the room; in which whispers, malicious grins of triumph, lolling

of tongues, and winking of eyes, were exhibited with peculiar archness. I continued playing, swearing, and losing for a few minutes, till I was interrupted by the return of Mr. Turnbull, accompanied by Mr. Seldon. Nothing could have added to the horrors I felt, but this. The mace dropped from my hand, the blood forsook my cheeks, and with my mouth open and eyes staring, I stood for a moment stupid, when suddenly a fit of frenzy seized me; I snatched up the billiard-balls that lay before me, and, with one in one hand, and the other in the other, struck myself violently on each side of the head, and dropped motionless on the floor.
IN this manner did the scene shut on me for that night. With my senses, I lost the remembrance of my disgrace, till the following morning; when I awoke,

though to less wild, yet not less poignant griefs; and it was the greatest care only, that could and did preserve me from a fever.
THE folly I had committed, the disgrace I had incurred, the impossibility of ever looking again on Mr. Seldon with confidence, added to the afflictions I endured from my unhappy love, made me resolve to quit a family, where it was impossible I should enjoy a moment's peace. Had not my own desire prompted me to this course, I should still have been obliged to have taken it. Mr. Seldon had avoided seeing or speaking to me since the sin of the billiards; it was with him a mortal one, and not to be forgiven. Accordingly, when I was out of danger from the little illness I had suffered, he sent Mr. Turnbull to me, who spoke to the following purport:

—Mr. Seldon desires me to acquaint you, that it is necessary you should quit his house; it is a duty that he owes both to his peace and reputation, to harbour no one who disturbs the one, or sullies the other; he has sent you twenty guineas, with which he advises you to seek your fortune, in some place where your character is not known; being certain, he says, that no man in his senses will harbour a gambler, to the endangering, perhaps, of not only his property, but his life: he likewise adds, that you must expect no future favour from him of any kind whatever.
WHEN Turnbull had finished, he laid the guineas, which I did not offer to receive, upon a table, and, with tears in his eyes, quitted the room. I was some time before I could recover myself enough to move from the place where

I stood; for though I had every reason to expect something of this kind, yet it did not destroy the effect. At last I recollected myself a little, and, taking pen and ink, wrote a long letter, directed to Mr. Seldon, and put it by the side of the money he had sent me. This epistle contained an acknowledgement of my guilt, and an admiration of his lenity and goodness; many thanks for the favours I had so often received, and so ill deserved; a refusal of his last bounty, from the following motives▪ first, from a conviction of my unworthiness; secondly, from a resolution that, since my own indiscretion had plunged me into distress, I alone would be the sufferer; a punishment that I would not forego; and, lastly, that I could not prevail upon myself to incur any more obligations, because it was scarcely possible I should discharge them.

—I then collected such of my clothes as were paid for, and, with my bundle in my hand, shame on my countenance, and my heart ready to burst, went, or rather slunk out of a house, in which I once thought myself universally beloved.
WITHOUT money, without a friend, that shame or pride would suffer me to disclose my distress to, or a habitation of any kind to hide my head in, I found myself in the midst of London streets, forsaken and forlorn, an outcast and alien among mankind. I had heard of people whose employment it was to kidnap and decoy others on board of ships, that they might transport them to America. Never did a wretched fearful criminal more earnestly wish for a reprieve, than, at this moment, I longed to meet with one of those friendly kidnappers.

My mind, incoherent, sunk with grief and despondency, could think of no resource from absolute starving. At last, as I was wandering at the discretion of my feet, my eye accidentally glanced upon a printed bill again the wall. This was an invitation to all those spirited young fellows, who chose to make their fortunes as common soldiers in the service of the East-India company. I beheld it with more joy than the Jews did the grapes brought from the land of promise, and was posting with all haste to enroll my name among that honourable corps, when I was prevented by one Evans, whom I had known at the spouting-clubs. He, seeing my bundle and my rueful face, asked me where I was going; to which I replied, that had he asked me five minutes sooner, I could not have informed him; but that, at present, I was for the wars. When I

had explained myself he appeared greatly surprised, and told me he thought he could put me upon a better scheme than that, and one more suitable to my inclination likewise. He said, one Macloughlin, a famous London actor, was going over to play in Dublin; that he had been enquiring of him concerning a young fellow, such as me, and that, if I chose, he would introduce me to him; observing, that it would be time enough to carry the knapsack if the sock did not succeed. This proposal was too agreeable to be heard with inattention. Accordingly, having thanked my quondam acquaintance, and, after accepting his offer, related the deplorable state of my finances, at which he did not seem at all shocked or surprised, I, at his entreaty, accompanied him to his lodging, which was at a piece-broker's, in White-horse-yard, Drury-lane, up

three pair of stairs backwards, with a pleasant prospect of gardens in two-penny pots, smoked tiles, and right ancient chimnies.
HAVING come to a mutual explanation, I found my friend Evans but little better stocked with money than myself, the sum total being two-pence halfpenny; so that, my watch and my small wardrobe considered, I was much the richer man. He told me we need not be in want of cash at present, for that lord North's office was always open to young gentlemen in distress, who carried a watch, or had a superfluous shirt or suit of clothes. Lord North's office was a cant phrase for a neighbouring pawnbroker's of that name, whither, with my consent, he conveyed such of my apparel as I had least need of, to be brushed and laid by, as his joke had it,

and in return brought me the sum of one guinea, which might be something less than a third of its worth, and which I divided with him. As for the watch it was a new one, that I had lately had upon credit, and which, as I knew it was now out of my power to pay for, I was determined to return. This task I performed that very afternoon, in utter contradiction to the advice of Evans, who remarked with what elocution a gold tatler would plead its master's cause to the ears of the before-mentioned lord, and how carefully he always preserved such tokens of friendship, even to the condescending, sometimes, to wear them in his own fob. I wrote likewise, for I had not effrontery enough to face them, to all my creditors, and of the small hopes there were of their being paid at present, but with a promise that no opportunity should slip, whenever I had it

in my power; and this promise I have kept so faithfully, that I am now out of the dread of duns.
THE next day, as was proposed, I was introduced to Mr. Macloughlin, by whom I found Evans was employed, as a kind of scout, to pick up youngsters who had promising geniuses, it being one of this actor's passions to make actors of others; though perhaps, in some respects, the worst qualified for it of any man in the world. He was seated upon his couch, which stood by the fire, and on which, when he found himself weary or sleepy, he went to rest, either by day or night, as it happened, and sometimes did not go to bed for a fortnight together, according to the information of my conductor. As we went in we were followed by his wife, who brought him a basin of tea and some

toast, with each of which he found fifty faults, in the rudest manner. While I staid he called to her several times, upon very frivolous occasions, at each of which she was dignified by the name and title of Bess. His countenance was to me, of all I had ever beheld, the most forbidding; and age, which had deprived him of his teeth, had not added to its softness. After having desired me to sit down, he eyed me pretty narrowly, and then asked me What had put it into my head to turn actor. The abruptness of the question disconcerted me; and it was some time before I could answer, which I did in rather a confused manner, at last, by saying I had taken it into my head to suppose it was genius, but that it was very possible I might be mistaken. Yes, said he, that's possible enough; and, by G—d, Sir, you are not the first that I have known so mistaken.

I smiled at his satire, and he grinned ghastly with his leathern lips: a happy omen, for I perceived I had not added to the beauty of his visage, when I repeated his words. While he was drinking his tea, we discoursed upon indifferent subjects, and as I did not happen to differ in opinion with him, but on the contrary, had opportunities of saying several things which corroborated his dogmas, he was pleased to allow I had the appearance of an ingenious young man. When his beverage was finished, he desired me to speak a speech out of some play, which having performed, he remarked that he had never in his life heard a young spouter speak naturally, and therefore he was not surprised that I did not; however, as I seemed tractable and docile, if I would call on the morrow, he would hear and answer me further.

WHEN we had descended into the street, Evans said he was sure it would do, for that I had met with a very kind reception; which indeed was the case, it not being one of this person's foibles to over-sweeten his behaviour, or conversation, with the mild honey of the graces. As I look upon him to be a very extraordinary man, I shall endeavour to give you the outlines of his picture, and though, upon the whole, he behaved exceedingly ill to me, I will be careful that the drawing shall not be out of nature.
THOUGH he was born in the last century, according to his own confession, yet the faculties of his mind did not seem in the least impaired. He is said to have been bred in the interior parts of Ireland, and in such utter ignorance that, we are told, from respectable

authority, of his not being able to read at the age of forty; the progress, therefore, which he has made in language and literature, are astonishing testimonies of his genius and assiduity. His body, like his mind, is cast in a mould as rough as it is durable. His aspect and address confound and confuse his inferiors, and the delight he takes in making others fear and admire him, gives him an aversion to the company of those whose knowledge exceeds his own; nor did I ever hear him acknowledge superiority in any man. He has no respect to the timidity or pudency of youth or sex, but will say the most discouraging, as well as the rudest things, and receives pleasure in proportion to the pain he communicates. It is common with him to ask his pupils, why they did not rather think of becoming brick-layers

labourers than actors. He is impatient of contradiction to an extreme, and when he finds fault, if the culprit attempts to answer, he stops him without hearing him, with
Ha, you have always a reason for being in the wrong.
This impatience goes still further, it often renders him abusive. He can pronounce scoundrel, b—h, and rascal, with ease and familiarity, and without the least annoyance to his nervous system. He pretends to the strictest degree of impartial justice, and while his passions are unconcerned, preserves it; but these are so exceedingly irritable, that the least contradiction is an insufferable insult, and the want of capacity, or immediate comprehension in his pupils is, to him, sufficient occasion to indulge his anger, which is often exceedingly rancorous, and has the direct tendency of inciting

despair instead of emulation, especially if the scholar's feelings are quick and sensible. This is too severe a climate for the tender plant of genius ever to thrive in. Though his judgment is sound, and his instructions, in general, those of a master, yet, he may be, and is, sometimes wrong; but, if the learner should dare to think for himself, or offer the least word in defence of a different opinion, it is high treason against this stage monarch; and he is more scurrilous and unmerciful than judge Jefferies. In short, if I may estimate the sensations of others by my own, those despots, who, we are told, shoot their attendants for their diversion, are not glanced at with more awe, nor much more honour than Mr. Macloughlin by his pupils and domestics.

AFTER having finished our visit, we

adjourned to the Black Lion, in Russel-Street, whither many of the theatrical people resort. Here I learnt that Mr. Foote was going to take a company to Edinburgh, after the close of his summer season. Being anxious to secure myself an engagement, and the manner of Mr. Macloughlin having neither prejudiced me much in his favour, nor given me any certain token of success, I resolved to make application to this other gentleman. Accordingly, after some slight excuse to Evans, I posted away into Suffolk-Street.
I HAD the good fortune to find the wit at breakfast with a young fellow, who he had employed partly on the stage, and partly as an amanuensis. After being shown into the room, and desired to sit down, "Well," said he,
young gentleman, I guess your business by the

sheepishness of your manner; you have got the theatrical cacoethes, you have rubbed your shoulder against the scene, hey? is it not so?
—I replied in the affirmative;
Well, and what great hero should you wish to personate? Hamlet, or Richard, or Othello, or who?
I answered I distrusted my capability of performing any that he had mentioned; "Indeed!" said he,
that's a wonderful sign of grace. I have been teased for these many years by all the spouters in London, of which honourable fraternity I dare say you are a member; for, I can perceive no stage varnish, none of the true strolling brass lacker on your face
—"No indeed, Sir"—
I thought so. Well Sir, I never saw a spouter before that did not want to surprise the town in Pierre, or Lothario, or some character that requires every

requisite and address of a master in the art. But come, give us a touch of your quality; a speech: here's a youngster,
pointing to his secretary,
will roar Jaffier against Pierre, the loudest take both.
Accordingly he held the book, and at it we fell; the scene we chose was the first of the before-mentioned gentlemen in Venice Preserved. For a little while at the beginning, I took the roaring hint he had thrown out, and restrained my wrath, but it appeared so insipid, and the ideas of rant and excellence were so strongly connected in my mind, that when Jaffier began to exalt his voice, I could no longer contain my indignation, but as Nic Bottom says, * we roared so, that it would have done your heart good to have heard us. Foote smiled, and after enduring this vigorous attack upon

his tympanum as long as he was able, interrupted us.

FAR from discouraging me, he told me that, with respect to giving the meaning of the words, I spoke much more correct than he expected; but, said he, like other novices, you seem to imagine all excellence lays in the lungs; whereas, such violent exertions should be used but very sparingly, and upon extraordinary occasions; for besides that these two gentlemen, instead of straining their throats, are supposed to be in common conversation, if an actor makes no reserve of his powers, how is he to rise consistent to the tone of the passion? He then read the scene we had rehearsed, and with so much propriety and ease, as well as force, that I was surprised, having always supposed risibility the only emotion he could inspire.

AFTER this, he demanded if I could sing, to which I answered in the affirmative, and, that I had likewise some knowledge of music; for you know it is a science that I, as well as you, always took great delight in. When he had heard me chant, he praised my voice, but told me, that, as I was entirely inexperienced with respect to the stage, if I was engaged with him, my salary at first would be very low. He said it was impossible to judge with certainty of stage requisites, till they had been proved; and that, if after having considered of it, I judged it expedient to accept of one pound per week, I might come to him again a day or two before the theatre in the Hay-market shut up; but that, if I could meet with a more flattering offer in the mean time, he begged this might be no obstacle; for that, as I might suppose, it would be of no consequence

to him, and wished me a good morning.
I CAME away from this great wit, delighted with the easiness and frankness of his behaviour, and elated with my success. However, as I had promised Macloughlin to call, I did not think proper to fail. Accordingly, at this my second visit, he gave me a part to read in a piece which he himself was the author of, and which had met with much success. When I had finished this task, with which he appeared tolerably satisfied, he paid my understanding a great compliment, by reading some scenes of a new comedy, which he was then writing. Not that I can suppose he expected me to make any remarks that could assist him, but from that kind of weakness, to which the strongest minds are in some degree subject, a desire of applause,

and a hope that others will corroborate the vast opinion we, at certain moments, entertain of our own capacity. This is in some degree laudable, at least excusable; and, where genius is really concerned, must become extravagant to merit our censure. The scenes that I heard were characteristic and satirical, and met with my sincere and hearty approbation, which I suppose did not a little contribute to prejudice Macloughlin in my favour.
I THOUGHT myself bound in honour not to act with duplicity; I therefore told him of the offer I had had from Foote, giving at the same time my reason for such conduct, namely, the necessity I was under of getting into some employment, or starving. He allowed the cogency of it, but said he thought I might do better in Ireland. He asked if I had any objection

to become a prompter, adding that it was profitable, and an office, from the good hand I wrote, and other circumstances, for which I might easily be qualified. I answered he was the best judge of that, and that I had no other dislike to it, except that it would be more agreeable to my inclination to be an actor. This, he replied, might be indulged, and render me so much the more useful. Little parts would be frequently wanting; the going on for these would accustom me to face the audience and tread the stage, which would prepare me for better. I then demanded what salary I should have annexed to this business; to which he answered, that as I had my trade to learn, I could not expect so much as a better workman; but that, since there was a deal of trouble in it, I could not have less than thirty shillings, especially as

I undertook to do small parts occasionally. He informed me that he was not manager himself, he only went as a performer; but that Mr. M—n, one of the managers was in town, with whom he would speak concerning me, and in two or three days I might have a positive answer. In the mean time he desired I would call on a morning, and he would give me instructions in the part I had read to him, for that he had some thoughts of letting me play it. I was sensible of his favours, and after making him every acknowledgement, departed much better pleased than at my first visit.
ADIEU.—My next will finish this long enumeration of trifles.
W. HILKIRK.

LETTER V. Mr. STAMFORD, Jun. to Mr. ALWYN.
Dear HARRY,
I WAS happy in receiving your favour, which, though not to be called a short one, I found deficient in many particulars—perhaps the impatience of my regard for you made me think so. This is finding fault, you'll say, and in truth I find myself a little disposed to blame you, for giving no account of the heroes and demi-gods into whose society you are, I presume, by this time admitted. Your offer of correspondence I accept with much pleasure, but give you warning, that I shall expect a very minute account of all your transactions, which cannot fail of being important; and, on the other hand, as I

am not so situated as to expect a series of adventures, you must allow me to finish sans ceremonie, when I have nothing to communicate. I should be very much inclined to laugh at your plan of operations, if the circumstances that engage my notice were of less consequence to your happiness. We have all been very dull since your departure. My father is frequently observing, that he misses his favourite Harry, and never mentions your name without some epithet expressive of his love or good opinion. Maria, poor girl, feels, I fear, too powerfully the effects of love. You often said, when I remarked the tenderness of my sister's behaviour to you, that it proceeded only from the sweetness of her temper, and the benevolence of her disposition, and not from my real partiality in your favour. That modesty which makes you blind to your

own merit, occasioned your saying so; but I always thought otherwise, and your absence confirms me in that opinion. Her cheerfulness is fled, she often complains she is not well, and takes every opportunity of stealing from company. Her harpsichord is her only amusement, where she is continually singing that plaintive little song you wrote, and which, with the assistance of her music-master, she set. I have often observed the tear starting from her eye at the last stanza, which she sings with the most pathetic expression, seeming to breathe forth her soul in the melody. This she often apologizes for, with a forced smile.
I know brother,
says she,
you think me very foolish for being so affected with feigned sorrows, but I cannot help it.
I always tell her I love her for it, for tears of compassion are nature's

marks of distinction, and the heart that never melts is less than human. Whenever your name is mentioned, her bosom heaves with a sigh, that she in vain endeavours to suppress; and when I told my father I had heard from you, she could scarcely conceal her emotions.

SHE begged I would let you know, that she misses your company and assistance at her studies, and hoped you would recover your health, so as to enable you to return to town next winter. Besides, said she, you may tell him I am quite at a loss for a beau. As for a beau, replied my father, I take it you will soon be provided with one without waiting for our Harry; for Mr. Maitland acquaints me, that his son Tom is coming up to town next week, and who knows what may happen between this and Christmas. The last

sentence was spoke in a kind of arch manner, that showed his visit was in consequence of a previous agreement between old Maitland and him. Maria understood it so, and, making a half bow of acknowledgement, sat very grave and silent during the rest of the conversation.
THIS passed at dinner, and in the evening, when the business in the counting-house was settled, my father sent for me into his study, where I found him sitting with a letter in his hand.
"CHARLES," said he,
I have, for some time, been considering about settling you and your sister in life, as it would be the highest satisfaction to me to see my children respectably situated before I die. An idle man of property is a more useless being than the indolent in a

lower situation. The man of great fortune and influence owes to the state his advice and protection; and he whose situation does not immediately call him into life is, nevertheless, bound, in a great measure, to enter into society; for indolence and inactivity are only for those who have spent the former part of their lives in that reciprocation of 〈◊〉 offices that the wants of manki•• demand. Considerations of this nature induced me to bring you up in the mercantile line; and I know you regard my advice enough to continue in it after I am gone. I shall not, now, enlarge on the profession, nor remind you in how many ways it will be in your power to assist and support individuals, as well as your country, without injuring yourself; but am, at present, to acquaint you that I have determined to admit

you into partnership with me, and that the articles are now ready for executing.
I was going to answer when he proceeded thus;
I shall continue in the house, if I live, four years; at the expiration of which term I shall quit the business in your favour, and retire to finish my days at my house in Kent. As for Maria,
continued he, "this letter contains a proposal which I think much to her advantage. It is from
my old friend Maitland, and I have answered it by to-night's post, informing him, that I intend to give her fifteen thousand pounds; besides which, she is possessed of a little estate of about 200l. a year, left her by her aunt Conan; but that she will have no more till after my decease. I shall say nothing to Maria on the subject, till young Maitland arrives, but expect the marriage will be celebrated

some time next winter, when his father ••mes to town.

I DARE say, my dear Harry, this will prove a heart-felt st•oke to you. I assure you that I fee••o• you, as well as my sister, who, I am convinced will be very unhappy, if the match takes place. My father is, I fear, too much a man of the world, ever to consent to your wishes; which, for my part, I sincerely desire to see accomplished, though the present prospect: affords no ground for hope; but whatever turn affairs may take, you may depend on having frequent accounts from me. I am,
Dear Harry, you sincere Friend,
C. STAMFORD.

P. S.
I have enclosed a copy of the letter from Mr. Maitland to my father, and need make no comment on the peculiarity of the style, &c.


LETTER VI. Mr. MAITLAND, to 〈◊〉 STAMFORD, S•nior.
My Good Frie•d,
Maitland-Hall.
IT is a theorem, that admits of mathematical demonstration, that the propagation of the human species is accelerated in the direct ratio of the mutual attraction that subsists between the two sexes.
IT is likewise evident, that the perpetuity of every system is consequent to the preservation of order: whence it follows,
THAT it becomes us, quoad potesiatem, in the orbits of our respective influences, to bring the attractive bodies within the sphere of attraction.

I WAS prevented from coming to town last winter by an attempt to discover the cause of bubbles in ice by reducing it to an impalp•••••owder; but shall certainly see you 〈◊〉 winter, sivis inertiae non 〈…〉
IN the mean time, by the help of the foregoing lemmata, you will easily conceive the following investigation.
LET the attractive powers of your daughter be separated by the letter c, and call her portion m.
AGAIN. Let the centripetal force of my son Tom be denoted by the letter p, and his eccentricity (of which I am informed he has an unknown quantity) by x.

THEN Maria's whole attractive power will be equal to c + m.
And, 〈…〉 of 〈◊〉 being undetermined 〈…〉 round Maria will be 〈…〉 elliptical orbit, his distances varying at different times.
MARIA will be the focus.
NOW, if the quantity m is sufficiently powerful, Tom will approximate in a spiral curve, and will at length fall into the focus.
BUT 〈◊〉 should be deficient in ponderosity, Tom will fly off in a tangent
I HAVE sent for him from college, to try the experiment, and he will be with

you next week. In the interim, you will please to calculate the value of the unknown quantity m, and send me the result, that I may complete the solution. I remain, my good friend,
Your's to command, HUMPHRY MAITLAND.

LETTER VII. Mr. HILKIRK to Mr. ALWYN.
Dear HARRY,
I RECEIVED your's from Kendal, by which I am informed of your safe arrival. I am glad that the relation of my adventures has afforded you pleasure and, in compliance with your request, shall here send you the remainder. It is a happiness to me to be able to gratify or oblige my friend at so cheap a rate.
IT was not long before every thing was settled in the manner proposed by Mr. Macloughlin, and I was informed it was necessary for me to set off for Dublin, it being the intention of the proprietors to open the theatre about the beginning of October. In consequence

of my desire to appear in some •••••cter he had promised, not only to procure me such an opportunity, but, likewise, to instruct and become my patron; and, upon my representing to him my want of cash for the journey, he lent me six guineas on the part of the managers, and gave me a letter to Mr. O'Neal, who would, out of respect to him, provide me with a lodging and do me other services of the like nature which could not but be agreeable to a youngster like me.
I REWARDED my friend Evans with a guinea, redeemed my clothes with another, and left London, elated with the most flattering prospects. Could I have forgot the name of Julia and the family of Seldon I should, at this moment, have been a stranger to sorrow: but that was impossible.

ABOUT the latter end of September I arrived in Dublin. The 〈…〉 scene, and the vast 〈…〉 the economy and manners of the people, made a strong impression upon my imagination. The bar at the mouth of the Liffy renders the entrance up that river passable but to ships of small burden, and to them only when the tide serves. It was low water when we came to the mouth of it, and a boat came along side of our vessel, into which most of the cabin and steerage passengers went, rather than wait another tide, and I among the rest. The river divides the city, and there were about a dozen who were set on shore on the quay; but I, as per letter, enquired for Capel-street, which was on the contrary side. Thither, accordingly, I was carried, and my trunk and myself landed in a beer-house. I was astonished when the water-ruffians, with

their red beards, black hair, and wild eyes, dem••••d five and five-pence, together with a qua•t of three-penny, for my carriage from the packet; the more so, as I had seen the other passengers give but a shilling each, and one or two of the meaner among them only six-pence. I remonstrated at the imposition, and quoted the precedent of the shilling; to which one of these modest gentry replied, in the true Connaught accent,
F'why, now blood and ouns, sure we can see now that you are a sweet honey of an English young Jontleman; and sure, agrah, I always delight to see an English Jontleman sit his foot on board my boat. Long life to 'em; they don't come like Spalpeens, wid a six-pence halfpenny in their hand, sure f'why, to a poor man. And so as you are a stranger, f'why, we brought you to this beer-house,

becase as f'why, the divel so honest a fillow is there in all 〈◊〉 whole city of Dublin as my landlord •ere.
—— To this harangue the landlord, who pretended to be in my interest, replied, that
to be sure, there was not two honester fillows brathing than Pat M'Cullogh and Brian O'Flanaghan; but howiver, the divel burn you Brian,
added he,
you see the Jontleman is a stranger, and so you must take no more than four and four-pence; which, Sir, is just four English shillings, and the pot of three-penny.

THE wildness of their looks, the smoothness of their tongues, and the possession they had taken of my trunk, upon which one of them seated himself, while the other argued the case, occasioned me to comply with their demands;

but that which was the greatest cause of admiration to me in the whole scene was, that the landlord, who swore by the holy Father to their honesty, while I was paying them, no sooner saw their backs turned, than, according to his own phraseology,
he pitched them to the divel, for a couple of cut-throat, chating rascals, that desarved hanging worse than a murderer.

I AM sorry to say that, during my short stay in Ireland, I had but too many occasions to observe a shocking depravity of morals, which I attribute, either to the laws, or the want of a due enforcement of them. The Irish are habitually, not naturally, licentious. They have all that warmth and generosity which are the characteristics of the best dispositions; and, when properly educated, are an honour to mankind. Hibernia

has produced many first-rate geniuses, and, in my opinion, nothing but the foregoing circumstance has prevented her from producing many more. It is the legislature that forms the manners of a nation.
WHEN I set out from London, I was assured that the house would open at the beginning of October, but it was November before the season commenced; so that my finances were once again exhausted, and I was obliged to apply, on the credit of Macloughlin, to Mr. O'Neal, for a farther supply. Our acting manager was one O'Dogherty, alias Dawson, a busy, bustling fellow, that pretended to carry the world before him. Void of principle, an enemy to truth, except when it served his purpose better than falsehood; inured to flattery from the poor wretches whom

he employed as servants about the house, and whom it was his custom to kick with the utmost familiarity, whenever he found himself so disposed, I presently discovered there was an insurmountable antipathy between his disposition and mine. But the means of my existence were at stake; I endeavoured, therefore, to accommodate myself as much to his temper as possible, and waited for the arrival of Macloughlin with the utmost impatience. I understood my engagement to have been permanently fixed at thirty shillings a week; but, when I went to the treasury, I found it reduced to a guinea; and whenever I pleaded my agreement, received the most mortifying and insulting answers. I perceived the utter improbability of my becoming a favourite. None were so but such as could administer the most gross flattery, and who

listened to whatever was said in the theatre concerning this demagogue and his management, and repeated the gleanings of their industry in his private ear.—I vainly supposed the presence of Macloughlin would put an end to all my grievances; I looked up to him as my patron, as one who had been the occasion of my leaving England, who had pledged himself to be my friend, and was bound to protect me. Whether O'Dogherty had prejudiced him against me, or whether he observed my deficiency at adulation, I cannot determine, but I found him very cold in my interest, and far more disposed to brow-beat than countenance me. He had promised to teach me a part, and bring me out in it; and when I ventured to remind him of it, I received only sarcastic remarks on my inability. I persisted in asserting the positiveness of

my agreement respecting my salary, concerning which Macloughlin had the meanness to equivocate; but I could only obtain an addition of four shillings per week. Instead of directing, or assisting me in my business as a prompter, which he had engaged to do before I consented to undertake it, he took every opportunity of venting his tenfold portion of spleen upon me.
INCAPABLE of extricating myself, I endured the mean insults of ignorance and malice for five months, till the money which I had borrowed had been deducted from my stipend, and then O'Dogherty immediately discharged me. It would be no easy matter to describe what I felt at this moment. I had not five shillings in the world, was in a strange kingdom, and had no means, now that I was shut out from the theatre,

of obtaining a subsistence. I beheld nothing but misery and famine, and imprecated curses on Macloughlin, for the perfidiousness of his conduct toward• me. Of this I was so sensible, that, though the severity of his manner had gained an entire ascendency over me, I went to his house, and with the utmost firmness, after premising that I would rather starve than incur a fresh obligation from him, displayed the impropriety and injustice with which he had treated, and the shocking necessity to which he had reduced me in such animated terms, that all his accustomed sternness fled, and the Cynic stood abashed before the boy.
THE money which had been deducted from my salary to discharge my debt was so considerable that I had not been able to pay my lodging. I had

a bill against me there, of between three and four pounds. It is true, there was another theatre open in Smock-alley, under the direction of Mossop; but he was insolvent, and none of his people were paid. Here, however, as to a dernier resort did I apply, and was engaged at the same nominal salary that I had had at Capel-street.
A FEW days after this event I was told, by an acquaintance, that a stranger had been making enquiries after me in a very circumstantial and particular manner; and that he appeared much affected when he heard how I had been treated by O'Dogherty and Macloughlin. The description of this stranger's person answered exactly to that of Mr. Turnbull. I received this intelligence at the theatre; and, when I returned home, I found a letter directed to me, and a ten pound

bank bill enclosed. The contents informed me that the donor was an old friend who had a sincere regard for me; and who, if I persevered in my distress to preserve my principles, did not doubt of seeing me, on some future day, as much favoured of fortune as I was, at present, persecuted by her. The character of this epistle, though purposely disguised, confirmed me in the opinion that Turnbull was the old friend alluded to.
THIS event called up a train of ideas of the most impassioned kind. My former companions, my patron's care, conspicuous in its severity, the friendship of Turnbull, which now appeared even romantic, for I could not place his journey to the account of business, Mr. Seldon having no connexions in Dublin, added to the fond remembrance of Julia, and contrasted with the forlorn

condition in which I then beheld myself, gave me the most poignant sense of the alteration. At one moment, all possibility of future happiness vanished; and at the next, a gleam of hope beamed in the prophecy which the letter contained. This, while it left a kind of riddle in my imagination, which I yet cannot tell how to solve, fortified me in my former resolutions of preserving my integrity.
IT soon appeared that there was no probability of being paid for my performance at Mossop's theatre; I therefore very willingly quitted Dublin in March, and went on board the packet for Park-gate, resolving that, if I must be miserable, England should be the scene of my sufferings. The wind was fair till we had lost sight of the hill of Hoath; but presently, after sun-set, a

hurricane came on, which, in this narrow and rocky sea put our lives in imminent danger. Of this, however, the violence of the sea-sickness made me insensible. We were drove, during the storm, considerably to the north, and such was the ignorance of the master and his two or three superannuated mariners, that he continued sailing northward, having no knowledge of navigation, but what he had gained by coasting between the two kingdoms. This, in the present conjuncture, was of no use to him; so that, in all likelihood, we should have made the tour of Greenland, had not an intelligent Scotchman, among the passengers, known some of the headlands in his own country. The blockhead of a master would have contested the point, and proceeded to the land of bears, had not the company perceived his stupidity and joined the North Briton, who,

with a degree of warmth expressive of his attachment to his bleak hills, called out,
What the de'el mon, d'ye think I dinna ken the craig of Elsey.

THIS extraordinary voyage kept us eight days without putting into any port, except sending the boat on shore on the evening of the seventh, at the Isle of Man, to procure some provisions for the passengers, who were almost starved, having devoured the stock which is usually provided for these kind of voyages in a day or two after the storm had abated. The reason why we were so very long in making our port was, the extraordinary calm that had succeeded; which the mariners, who are the most superstitious of all human beings, attributed to there being some Jonas on board. This opinion they had inculcated among the poor devils who

pay half a crown for their passage in the hold; who were as ignorant as themselves, and far more mischievous. Unhappily for me, I was the person on whom their suspicions alighted the strongest. They had discovered me to be a player, a profession consigned over, by the almost universal consent of mankind, to the devil. For what reason I could never yet discover. This ridiculous belief, however, had nearly cost me my life. The wild Irish in the hold were chiefly catholics, and the sixth day from our departure happened to be Easter Sunday. I had sauntered off the quarter-deck, with a volume of Hudibras in my hand, and walked to the other end of the vessel, when I found myself encircled by two or three fellows with most ferocious countenances, who were staring at me with looks expressive of loathing and revenge. Most

of the passengers were at breakfast, and nobody upon deck but these ragamuffins, and a couple of the mariners, who joined them. The particularity of their manner attracted my notice, and one of them asked me, with his lips quivering with passion,
If I had not better be getting a prayer-book, than be radeing plays upon that blissed day.
—I perceived the fellows were inebriated, and, like a rash fool, instead of soothing, asked them if they imagined there was as much harm in radeing a play as in getting drunk, and so early in the morning too.
By the holy fadther,
replied the spokesman,
I know you. You are the Jonas, and by Jasus the ship will niver see land till you are tossed over-board, you and your plays along wid you; and sure it will be a grate dale better that such a wicked wretch as you

should go to the bottom, than that all the poor innocent sowls in the ship should be lost.
This speech entirely disconcerted me. The resolute tone of the rascal, and the approbation which his companions discovered were alarming. I preserved fortitude sufficient to assure them, it was not a play-book that I was reading, and opened it to convince them, while I edged away towards the quarter-deck, which I gained almost in the same manner that a cat keeps curs at bay till she steals into her hole.

I FEAR I tire you with these tedious accounts of myself: you say not; be it as it will, I have taken the liberty of a friend; and as you appear depressed with the peculiarity of your situation, my intention is only that you may compare notes, and see whether you

have hitherto been equally unfortunate. I have little more to relate that is worth your hearing. I arrived at Chester, and resolved to write to such travelling companies as I could procure any intelligence of. My knowledge of music, my talents as a singer, and my recent arrival from Dublin, were recommendations that ensured me several engagements. I chose one in a company that was then at Leeds in Yorkshire. In this my ill stars were again predominant. I found them in a state of anarchy, despised by the town, and quarrelling with one another, their manager calling them all rascals, and they returning the compliment. Here I discovered, too, how necessary practice is to the player; and that, though some of them could scarce read, they could all speak on the stage better than I could.

IN less than three weeks the greater part of the people separated, and, no others coming to supply their places, the company no longer existed. A letter had followed me from Chester, inviting me to join another sett, then at Hereford; but it had been wrote near a month, it was a hundred and sixty miles across the country, and I did not know, if I set out, whether I should find them there; or if I did, whether they might then stand in need of my assistance. But my ten pound bill was, by this time, notwithstanding all my economy, reduced to eleven shillings and six-pence. With a heavy heart then, and a light purse, did I begin another journey; and on the fifth day of my peregrination, entered an inn by the road-side, which was eight and twenty miles from Hereford, with the sum of nine-pence in my pocket, and made

my exit in the morning pennyless. The fatigue of my journey, and the penurious manner in which I had lived, had so reduced my spirits, that I found great difficulty in performing this last day's task upon an empty stomach; but there was no remedy. About four o'clock I ascended the hill that looks down upon this ancient city, at sight of which, a thousand anxieties took possession of my bosom. The players might be gone, and I, unknown to every living creature, had a spirit incapable of confessing the starving condition to which I was reduced. I enquired of the first man I met, with an emotion that it is impossible to describe, if the comedians had left Hereford; and leave you to imagine what I felt, when he answered in the negative. Faint, weary, and ready to drop with hunger, I traversed the town to enquire for the manager; but it was one

of the nights on which they did not perform, and he was not to be found. I was directed to his brother, who was a barber in the city; and upon their observing my weakness, and desiring to know if I was not well, I collected courage enough to tell them that I was greatly fatigued, having come a long journey, and for the last day not having broke my fast, except at the brook. I know not what kind of stuff some peoples hearts are made of, but I know that, notwithstanding this confession, in the making of which I had done great violence to my feelings, they heard it without offering me any assistance, or even so much as testifying either surprise or pity, and I quitted the house with the tears in my eyes.
WHEN the players understood a fresh member was come to join them,

they, from sympathy, soon discovered my disease; and when I gave them the anecdote of the barber, consigned him over to the devil, in a most emphatical manner. Little, except common occurrences, has happened to me since that time.
I STAID with this company some time, till a difference with the manager occasioned me to leave it. I have since been only with Santlo, and the one to which I have lately removed. The smallest trifles that any way affect the fortunes of a friend, I believe, are heard with pleasure, or anxiety; and though I do not, by any means, think myself either the only, or the most unfortunate person in the world, I have offered these anecdotes of my life, both to amuse and convince you, that in appearance, at least, you have been far more happy

than I. There is another motive, you know how delighted I am with your correspondence. Though you are not in arrear with respect to tale, you are certainly deficient in weight; I therefore hope you will communicate with the utmost freedom, whatever futurity shall produce, and if you are not already wearied, I shall continue to trifle as occasion may offer. Adieu.
W. HILKIRK.

LETTER VIII. Miss STAMFORD, to Miss GOWLAND.
My dear JULIA,
HOW long shall I wish, in vain, for the pleasure of your company? Your last letter gave me reason to hope for it a fortnight ago. I have ever since been in expectation of seeing you, and long to communicate the secrets of my bosom. Oh, my Julia, I am very wretched. I have lost my former cheerfulness, and can think of nothing but my misfortunes.
I KNOW your tender and compassionate disposition will sympathize with me in deploring the effects of a passion that has taken possession of my unguarded heart. Alas, I knew not it

was love! Under the specious disguise of friendship I have deceived myself, and simply thought it in my power to limit my inclinations to esteem and regard. Fatal experience has shown the contrary. I sigh for a happiness that every hour removes farther from me.
I WILL now tell you all, and, if I am tedious, you will excuse it. It is some relief to communicate my sorrows by letter, since your company is denied me.
WHEN my father was young, he was frequently employed on the Continent, in transacting business on account of my grandfather. On one of these occasions he went on board a ship, up the Straits, in which one captain Alwyn was a passenger for Gibraltar, where his company then was. They became

very intimate, and their friendship was confirmed by an accident, that happened during the voyage.
IT was at that time war with France, and the sailors spied a ship, which they supposed to be a French man of war. My father went up the rope-ladders to look at it, and unfortunately slipped into the sea, where he must have perished, if Alwyn had not instantly jumped after, and sustained him by swimming, till a boat could be sent to their assistance. I have often heard my father mention, with regret, that he never saw him since they parted at Gibraltar, he being slain in battle, a few years afterwards.
LONG after this, calling on Messrs. Brown and Co. army-agents, he there saw a lady of the name of Alwyn; and

curiosity prompting him to make some enquiries, he found she was the widow of his friend. She had with her an only son, whom she had brought to town from school, to place in some business; and my father, happy in an opportunity of showing his attachment, as well as gratifying his own benevolent disposition, begged she would leave to him the care of providing for her Harry, for so he was called. He was in consequence received into the counting-house, where, till lately, he has ever since remained.
I WAS then at school, where I have passed so many happy hours with my dear Miss Gowland. Hours of peaceful enjoyment that never will return! I had few opportunities of cultivating Mr. Alwyn's acquaintance till I entirely quitted Mrs. Carrington's, when I found

him surprisingly grown, and adorned with every quality that distinguishes the man of merit.
HIS education had been of the first stamp, to which he had added that polish which the finer accomplishments are sure to bestow, where the understanding is good. His temper and address were the most pleasing in the world; and a consciousness of the obligations he owed my father, seemed to show itself in all his actions. I do not know whether that consciousness made him diffident, but I thought so; and, as well to second my father's good intentions as to show my own sense of his merit, I gave him every mark of esteem and friendship in my power.
HE was made principal clerk about that time, for which reason his attendance

was not so immediately required in the counting-house. My brother and he were therefore always together, and very often would accompany me on the harpsichord. Mr. Alwyn had a turn for poetry, which now and then appeared in a song; these were always set by my music-master, and formed a principal part of our entertainment. I have several by me, which I will show you when we meet.
BY these means we soon became on the most intimate terms of friendship; and it was with great concern I observed his health decline for these six months past. I did not suspect his love till he presented me with the following song, which was so applicable to himself, that it could not escape my observation.

SONG.
O love! thou powerful pleasing pain!
The heart that owns thy mighty sway
Shall ne'er recover peace again,
But waste in sighs the cheerful day.
Can words describe my countless fears,
While on the rack of doubt I lie?
While doom'd to pass my time in tears,
Condemn'd without complaint to die.
Alas! should love be mutual found,
What num'rous obstacles arise,
What great, what various ills abound,
To check the ardent, tender ties.
In vain I wish for lost repose,
In vain would absence bring relief:
Still love within my bosom glows,
And death alone can calm my grief.
I MUST confess the discovery gave me pleasure; but I thought it best to make no alteration in my conduct towards him. Little did I then think my regard for him was capable of occasioning

so much uneasiness in my bosom. But his farewell, when he went into the country for the recovery of his health, was attended with a look, in which despair and resignation were so blended, that I was quite melted, and was obliged to retire to conceal my tears.
ALAS! exclaimed I, it is true that I love him, and that he is unhappy! Perhaps his fatal passion may prove the bane of all his hopes. Perhaps the struggle between love and gratitude, in a mind so truly susceptible of every noble feeling, may overcome him, and he may pine under the hated load of life. But why perhaps? the work is already begun. Already his health and spirits are fled; and he wanders in vain, in search of peace.

OPPRESSED with thoughts like these, and convinced by absence how much I love him, I find it impossible to conceal the alteration in my disposition. I continue whole days in my chamber, and avoid company, under pretence of illness. My brother, I believe, suspects the real cause; for he found me the other morning in tears at my harpsichord, singing the little song I have sent you. I made some silly excuse, which, out of good-nature, he accepted of without further enquiry.
BUT the most afflicting circumstance is, that my father is in treaty with a gentleman in the country, to conclude a marriage between me and his son, who is now in town expressly on that business. If I did not feel myself too much prejudiced in favour of Mr. Alwyn ever to love another, I am sure he

is very far from being the person I would pass my life with. I do not believe it possible for him to be serious. He is for ever on some whim or project, as if he valued himself only in proportion to his capacity for promoting mischief; and his want of delicacy is insufferable, when I call to mind the tender and respectful attentions of poor Mr. Alwyn.
THINK, my dear Julia, on my situaation. I am sure you'll pity me; but it does not admit of advice. If my father insists I must submit, for I can never think of disobeying his commands; yet I tremble at the thoughts of becoming Maitland's wife.—Oh, my dear, I am distracted with a crowd of thoughts. I beg you'll come to me, and am,
Your's most affectionately, MARIA STAMFORD.

LETTER IX. Mr. STAMFORD, Jun. to Mr. ALWYN.
Dear HARRY,
I WROTE to you last week, in answer to your's; but have not since had the pleasure of a line from you. Old Maitland's sending my father a proposal of marriage, in the form of a mathematical problem, is truly whimsical. What is still more, my father assures me that there is no joke at all meant by it; but, that he seriously intends to make himself understood. If he intended quite the contrary, I think he could not have adopted a better method.
YOUNG Maitland is arrived, to try the experiment, as his father expresses it; but Maria does not seem disposed to

exert her attractive influence. She is constantly wrapt in thought, and takes very little notice of him, and he does not appear to care much about it. He is one of those wild youths, who, though possessed of sense and understanding, have too much vivacity to use them. I am afraid Maria, who is all meekness and delicacy, will be very unhappy with him if the match succeeds, and I see nothing at present, to hinder it, for she will never dispute her father's will; and young Maitland seems as if he thought it no affair of his, but leaves it to the management and direction of the old folks.
I HAVE agreed to accompany him to Maitland-hall, in a fortnight, where I promise myself a vast fund of entertainment from the oddities of his father. We should have set out sooner, but

that it would be impolite to leave Miss Gowland, who is now on a visit to my sister. You have often heard Maria mention her. They were at Mrs. Carrington's boarding-school together, and contracted a friendship, which is founded in the most perfect union of disposition and sentiment.
MISS Gowland is rather above the middle stature, but perfectly well-shaped and genteel. She cannot be called handsome; but the tout ensemble of her countenance, is so expressive of every amiable trait of disposition, that it is impossible to behold her without esteem. I think she differs from Maria, in a kind of volatility that I cannot describe better, than by comparing her to the Allegro, and Maria to the Penseroso of Milton. Each for the time claims the preference.

Nec diversa tamen: qualem decet esse sororum.
BUT Maria's hopeless love may tend, at present, to heighten the opposition.
FOR me, I still continue heart-whole. The destinies have not yet made a lover of me. The only concern that engrosses my attention, is the fate of my dear friend, and poor Maria. I know she will never love Maitland, and in any case but the present, I am sure my father would not oppose her inclination. I never saw him so bent on any affair, as on this; and though old Maitland's letter had a great deal of frigidity in it, it is only owing to his ridiculous attempt to bring every thing to the test of mathematical demonstration; for, they have both intended the match for some years. The nature of their attachment you will judge from the following narration. I had it from my

father, one evening, as we were conversing on this subject.
BEING both in the same class at school, the mutual assistance which they afforded each other in their studies was the first ground of particular intimacy. Possessed of nearly the same dispositions, and equally unacquainted with the world, they spent their early youth among the heroes of antiquity, and incited each other to emulate their virtues. But they were chiefly enamoured with those pleasing descriptions of retirement and solitude with which the poets abound, and from them formed the idea of a kind of life that seldom exists but in the imagination. Instead of wishing to cut a figure in the world, their desires were fixed on some peaceful retreat, where their employment might be to tend their flocks,

and repose on the verdant banks of a rivulet,
Far from the busy world, and all its cares.

THESE ideas were still more enforced by the rural situation of the school, which gave them an opportunity of forming grottoes, and other poetical edifices; and there was scarce a grove or stream in the neighbourhood that did not, at one time or other, afford them a subject for an ode.
AFTER passing two years in this sweet delusion, my father began to awake, and consider himself as an inhabitant of this world; but it was not so with Maitland. He had, indeed, discovered, that the Heathen mythology was a fiction; for his master had not sense to put him into the rational way of studying it. It was therefore no longer the

object of his attention; yet, with the poets, afforded him a temporary amusement. But his inquisitive disposition was now fully employed in the mathematics and natural philosophy; in which, at the time of his leaving the place, he was so totally immersed, that he came into the world with less real knowledge of it, than a boy of ten years old, brought up in the capital, usually has.
HIS father, possessed of a considerable fortune, acquired by his own industry, was very desirous of putting his son in a line of employment that might tend to improve, rather than diminish it: and in consequence, he was admitted on the firm of a very considerable house at Amsterdam; where he remained, till his father's death put

him in possession of the estate he now enjoys.
MY father, who came to town from school nearly at the same time as Maitland, was immediately placed at the desk in my grandfather's counting-house; and, by attention and assiduity, rendered himself so useful, that, some years before his death, he gave him a half share of the business.
YOU do not know, perhaps, that at my grandfather's death an execution was laid in the house; for, as the affair was well settled, it was always kept a profound secret: however, so it was. Two ships from the Mediterranean, that he had underwrote for a vast amount, were taken; and he, not being able immediately to answer the demand, was under the necessity of taking up a considerable

sum, on bond and judgment. In fact, this loss had almost ruined him; which the lender suspecting, laid an execution, as soon as he heard he was dead.
THINK what a situation my father was then in. Mourning for the death of a dearly loved parent, yet obliged to apply all his attention to prevent the overthrow of a business, which, though lucrative, he knew to be then insolvent. What could he do? He applied to Maitland; for their friendship, which as it had not remained uncultivated during this long interval, did not require ceremony. Maitland came immediately to town, elated with the opportunity of serving him, though he sympathized in his losses; and not only advanced the sum, but assisted him in other respects so considerably, that it may almost be said

that my father is indebted to him for the large property he is now master of.
SOON after this transaction my father married, and received ten thousand pounds in cash with my mother, besides the manor in Kent, to which she was heiress.
I OBSERVE, and possibly you may too by this time, that old Maitland, from a very abstracted mode of thinking, forms conclusions and adopts maxims which he never takes the trouble to compare with persons and things about him. Whence it is, that they are frequently inadequate, and always singular.
HE has read Locke with great attention, and being convinced that demonstration is not confined to mathematical

subjects alone, attempts to use it on all occasions: witness the letter he sent my father, which I scarce yet believe to be seriously written.
BUT I wander from the point. He has but one child, this youth is just come from college; and, by what I can collect, Maria was intended for him from her birth. Unpleasing intelligence, indeed, for you; yet from what has been related, I cannot avoid being apprehensive of the consequences to one, whom I should be as happy to serve, as I am proud to call by the sacred name of friend.
C. STAMFORD.

LETTER X. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. STAMFORD, Junior.
Dear SIR,
I WISH I could make you sensible how forcibly I feel your generous and disinterested friendship. Your letter expresses an opinion of me which I fear I am not worthy of; yet, such is the human heart, it attaches me so powerfully to you, that I believe, there is nothing so romantic, which I would not undertake to prove my gratitude.
YOUR account of Maria made my heart overflow. I hope you are mistaken in the cause of—What do I say?—Is that my wish? Is there any thing on earth could give me so much delight as to be beloved by her?—Would it

not rather give me torture?—It would make her as miserable as myself!—Forbid it heaven!—Let me try to divert these reflections. They oppress me—I am convinced they do not give you pleasure.
THE friendship of your father and Mr. Maitland, does them mutual honour.—It would ill become me to disturb the happiness of a family, to which I owe so many obligations.—It requires only a small degree of virtue to be ashamed of ingratitude.
WE have not yet began to play, our theatre will not be ready before Friday. We are to open with Romeo and Juliet; and I, for my first appearance, am to be the hero of the night. A good mental physician would not, I believe, have prescribed so sweet a dose; the studying

this character has not contributed to my recovery. But I have undertaken it, and must proceed. My feelings are so similar to those put into the mouth of the young Montague that it must be strange if I mistake my part. The company have formed great expectations of me, I am told, from hearing me rehearse; and the manager, who is a busy talkative person, is puffing his performers among the town's-people, and me among the rest. As I shall, perhaps, endeavour to amuse you now and then with the adventures of the theatre, it may not be unnecessary to inform you of the police and economy of the society of which I am a temporary member: that is, as far as I myself have learned.
A COMPANY of travelling comedians is a small kingdom, of which the manager

is the monarch. Their code of laws, from the little reading I have had upon the subject, seems to have existed, with few material variations, at, or perhaps, before the days of Shakespeare, who is, with great reason
the god of their idolatry.
The person who is rich enough to furnish a wardrobe and scenes, commences manager, and has his privileges and restrictions. The royal revenues are extensive, being in the ratio of five to one.—As thus—If there are twenty persons in the company, the manager included, the receipt of the house, after all incidental expenses are deducted, is divided into four and twenty shares, four of which are called dead shares, and taken by the manager as a payment for the use of his clothes and scenes; to these is added the share which he is entitled to as a performer.


OUR monarch, to resume my metaphor, through the fecundity of the queen consort, sweeps eleven shares into the royal pouch every night, having five sons and daughters, who are ranked as performers. This is a continual subject of discontent to the rest of the comedians, who are all, to a man, disaffected to the government. For my part, I do not think it worth while to be dissatisfied, having it in my own option to submit to these laws, or leave them for more equitable ones. That is not the case with them, they being all in debt to the manager, and, of course, chained to his galley; which he does not fail to inform them of, when they are refractory. They appear to be a sett of thoughtless, merry beings, who laugh in the midst of poverty, and who never want a quotation, or a story to recruit their spirits. When they get any money,

they seem, like Russian boors, in haste to spend it, lest some tyrant, in the shape of a dun, should snatch it from them.—They have a circuit, or sett of towns, to which they resort, when the time comes round; so that there are but three or four in the company, who are not well known in Kendal. The town's-people, I observe, are continually railing at them; yet are very unhappy, I am told, if they fail to return at the appointed season. It is a saying with the comedians that, a player's six-pence does not equal a town's-man's groat, and I find a great deal of truth in the apothegm; therefore, though these latter are continually abusing the poor players for running in debt, they take good care to indemnify themselves, and are no great losers if they get ten shillings in the pound.

I SHALL continue my observations from time to time, according to your desire, and shall be much mistaken if they do not afford amusement to a mind like your's. Permit me a concluding sigh for friends, and a tear for—I am ashamed of my weakness, yet cannot overcome it, at least, not at the present.
I am,
Dear Sir,
sincerely your's, H. H. ALWYN.

LETTER XI. T. STENTOR, to JEMMY DRUMSHANDRUGH.
Dear JEMMY,
THERE is nothing but crosses and vexations, and one damned thing or another, to be met with in this world.—Our landlady, like a good-for-nothing brim as she is, stopped my box for thirteen and seven-pence at the last town; so that I and my wife, are arrived in Kendal without a property* to play in. My grey hairs, and my wife's tie wig; the coronet I wear in Lear, with the George and garter for Richard, Banquo's bloody throat, that you painted on flesh-coloured callimanco; my shirt-shams, and new Basil buskins, never worn but one night in Mark Anthony;

Mrs. Stentor's tate, her witch's high-crowned hat, and Hecate's spectacles; the boots and belt in which she plays John Moody, together with the manager's Thunderbolt in Midas, and my last new sett of teeth, for which I paid half a guinea to our French dancing dentist; the black stockings with spangled clocks, that I wear in all my kings; the remainder of my two dozen guineas, that cost me ten-pence to put in my stage purse, and a thousand other things that I shall want every night, all stopped.—I'm in a pretty pickle. What the devil I shall do without my teeth I don't know; for to mend the matter I lost my old ones, that I made shift with in common, on the road, and I can't speak a word without lisping, worse than if I had belonged to the tribe of Ephraim; and was ordered to say shibboleth at the pass of Jordan, by the cruel bastard of Gilead.

MISFORTUNES never come alone. I have seen the day, when our manager durst not have refused to lend me thirteen and seven-pence if I wanted it; but he says I am no longer fit to play the love-sick heroes, so has engaged one Alwyn, that nobody, except Hilkirk, knows any thing of.—It's d—d strange if I can't play them better than that youngster. I that have been the representative of all the heroes ancient and modern, for almost these fifty years, and this is his first appearance, he says, though I'll swear he's a stager of five years standing, at least, by the manner of his rehearsing. Nay, and because he is in possession of a smooth face and a soft voice, its a guinea to a shilling, that all the young flirts fall in love with him.—He has made choice of Romeo (my favourite character above all others) to appear in.— I wish he may break his neck.—However, if he stays I'll go if I can.—I wish you

would try to get an engagement for me and my wife with your manager.—I have enclosed our casts*. My wife plays the queen's, is an excellent termagant, and goes into breeches. We neither of us clash with you, except that my wife plays John Moody, and she is allowed to be so excellent in that part, that if the great London SHUTER, or PARSONS that we hear so much of, were to come down, she would not give it up.
I HAVE been interrupted in my letter by that Alwyn.—I don't know what scheme he is at, but he has been here with an oiled tongue, and
a hope that he did not offend me; but, hearing I was a little distressed for a trifle, he came to offer me his assistance.
When he had finished his preface, he put a

guinea into my hand.—As he made his exit, he
begged a thousand pardons, and hoped I would excuse the abruptness, that his want of being better acquainted with me had forced him upon; but that he could not bear to hear of age being wedded to necessity.

NOTWITHSTANDING this fine rhetorical flourish, I am devilishly deceived if I don't see through this generosity. Men don't give their money away so freely without some view. Perhaps he meant it as a bribe, that I may patiently submit to see him rob me of all my characters. Had he lent it me, I should have suspected Santlo the manager to have been at the bottom of all this; but he would not give a guinea to save his mother's soul from purgatory; so it can't be him.—My young politician

shall find, however, I am not to be so easily bribed. If he mines, I'll countermine; and its a question if the young cub digs so deep as the old fox. He shall be well earthed if I don't unkennel him.—I have provided a party that shall hiss worse than the head of Gorgon. Staunch friends, that won't easily see the veteran vanquished.
GIVE our respects to your manager, and if he will agree to our playing those parts, which are here subjoined, and will send three guineas and a half, two of which I owe to Santlo, and the rest we shall want for our journey, we will join him immediately. Let him know how useful my wife is.—She is excellent in the old statesmen, and looks them admirably.—Not that we are exceedingly anxious about the matter. We make no doubt of being able, by

one means or other, to rout this whipster, this Alwyn.
OUR compliments to all old friends, and let me know how you share*, and whether your manager ever shows his book.—Our precious rascal immures his more carefully than the Romans did the Sybil's prophecy. Your's,
TRUNCHEON STENTOR.


LETTER XII. JEMMY DRUMSHANDRUGH, to T. STENTOR.
Friend TRUNCHEON,
I AM sorry to hear of your misforfortunes, becase as why, d'ye see, I have it not in my power to relave 'em at all at all; but howiver, I will give you some consolation in this affair, which is this, d'ye see, now.—By Jasus I have as miny misfortunes as yoursilf, or any other man alive; and so let that be your comfort. You know I had 500l. left me by my old aunt Phabe Tullaghan of Ballimagowran in the county of Cavan, and the province of Ulster, about two years before her death. Pooh! I mane two years after her—Ahoo!—To the divel I pitch my maning, but I know

it was whin I was one and forty years of age d'ye see, and now I am three and forty, as old Darby Coghran tells me; for as for mysilf, I niver mind of a handful of years d'ye see.—Well—An so—What now was I telling you about, agrah? —Oh! It was consarning my misfortunes, and my aunt Phabe. Well thin, it was about three twelve-months since she died and left me the 500l.—To be sure, she always said she loved me, though, for my part, the divel the word did I believe of the matter, till she was dead; for though she knew viry will that I was as poor, and as miserable as a Spalpeen*, and wanted her money for mysilf, sorra the morsel of the mind she had to die at all, nor the divel a bit could I persuade her to it (though I wrote to her several times about the affair) till she had not a drop of breath left

in her body, and thin, you know, the divel may htank her for her kindness. To be sure I was not much the richer for it, having spent it all seven years before I got it, and the rest soon after I resaved it, in paying my debts, and trating my frinds, for thin I had frinds enough, and ivery body was glad to shake hands with Jemmy Drumshandrugh, and now there's Mr. Pot the tailor, to the divel I pitch Mr. Pot the tailor, for the son of a Spalspeen whore's bastard; this Mr. Pot the tailor, who has tipled out of my pot many a frosty morning, threatens to arrist me if I don't pay him for the suit of clothes that I had of him about five years agoe, and for all I tould him I could not pay ivery body, and keep a little for my own use, and thin, you know, as he always said he was my frind, why I niver thought any thing about paying him at

all at all.—Sorra the frindship that I can find out in linding a man a guinea, and desiring one and twenty shillings in change. Howiver, my landlady, long life to the dare crater, whose husband has had a stroke of the palsy, about five weeks agoe, that has taken away the use of his limbs, promises to lind me the money. —She is a good, hearty woman, about my own age, with a dale of rich thick blood in her vanes, and has had a child, she tells me, every year since she has been married. She is very industrious, and has gone through a dale of trouble, she says. She took hould of my hand, and prest it so tinderly, and let the salt tares fall on it, while she tould me of her poor husband's misfortune, who, she says, before that accident, was an honest painstaking man; and so I am become a mighty favourite with her, and she never lets the maid come up now, to make

my bed, but makes it always with her own hands, and ginerally comes before breakfast, as she says it gets her a stomach, and likewise brings the warming-pan of a night, to warm it, becase, she says, it makes one sleep will, thin she trates me with oysters, whin she can get 'em, to my supper, and an egg to my tay of a morning, after the good ould Irish fashion, and so, as I tould you, I am become a mighty favourite with her.
As for your coming to this company, d'ye see, why our manager says it won't do, for why, we play all the hairos, between us, oursilves, and now that I spoke good English, and have got rid of my brogue, I do Lord Townly instead of John Moody, and make nothing of it. But if I should lave the company, why then there will be an opening for you, which I shall certainly do whin my

landlady's husband dies, becase why, there will be an opening, then, for me. She has a pretty income enough, and the poor woman is mightily grieved to see her husband in his misery, and so, as she tells me, she prays viry devoutly for the poor craters dith, to be sure she makes me love her the better, becase she is so tinder hearted.
As for our sharing, why I don't hear of any body among us that intinds to build churches, and rispicting the stock book, and your manager's being a rascal, why I don't wonder much at that, becase why, I niver knew one of them that was not a rascal, and I niver heard but of one, neither did I believe that, not but we have pritty full houses, and that the people may have enough for their money, d'ye see, why there is

plenty of singing and dancing ivery night after the performance is over. Mrs. Stentor is a viry useful woman to be sure, and just such a one as we want, so if you think it worth while to live fashionably, and niver see one another, why our manager says he will engage her with all his heart, d'ye see, now: and thin this is likely to be a good town, for why, the parson praches against the players ivery Sunday, and, as he is not mightily beloved, why they are resolved not to mind what he says; and so if you like of it, why let her set off before you resave this, becase as why, the sooner she comes, the longer it will be before we see her.—And so give me lave to conclude yourself my friend to command,
J. DRUMSHANDRUGH.

LETTER XIII. Mr. MAITLAND, Jun. to STAFFORD OSBORNE, Esq.
Dear OSBORNE,
THIS day week I left the sober family of the Stamfords, and am now safely landed at Maitland-hall. I was like a fish out of water during my stay in London. Settled in as pretty a demure church-going family as you'd wish to see, and what's more, on the footing of a suitor to the young lady. Now there are two things you expect, one, that I shall reform in a hurry, and the other that I shall give you a sketch of the queer creatures I have been shut up with for this fortnight, but you are confoundedly mistaken, if you think I'll take the pains to do either the one or

the other. I have not been out later than ten since my arrival in town, and was so lost for want of a frolick, that I was reduced to the necessity of having one on the road. I wish you had been there, for I had it all to myself,—but you shall hear.
YOUNG Stamford and I left London on Tuesday morning, attended by our servants on horseback. My man Sam, of whose dexterity and address you have seen proofs before now, was with me, and we arrived at M— in the evening, just as the passengers were alighting from the stage-coach. I stood at the inn-door while they were unpacking their carcases from the close stowage of the vehicle, and fancied, from their appearance, that they were a sett of characters that might afford some diversion. In consequence of this supposition, I

proposed to Stamford to sup with the passengers, which was agreed to. Sam went to reconnoitre the inn, and I applied myself to learn the dispositions of our fellow-travellers.
THE company was compounded of a short fat man about forty, with a cut of countenance not very inviting, for, arrogance and self-conceit were painted in every line of it. His wig was of the construction that custom, or some other cause, has rendered one of the attributes of holiness, and a blue grey suit of clothes, of a most stiff and formal outline, put it out of doubt, that he was a son of mother church. I afterwards found he was a country school-master, who had been to London to procure scholars, whom he found in all requisites for ten pounds a year. Opposite him sat a figure, whose calling and occupation were not so much

within the reach of conjecture. Deceit seemed to be the very essence of his composition. I never saw a man that so immediately inspired me with aversion. His aspect was like that of a mischievous animal that surveys you with fear, but with a fear mixed with an intention of hurting you, as soon as off your guard. His hair was lank and grey, his person tall and awkward, and his visage pale, hollow, and illuminated with a pair of small, sunken eyes that might have given rise to the fictions of witchery and incantations performed by an evil sight. A sett of habiliments, put together in a very peculiar style, would have tempted me to pronounce him an apothecary of the last century, if a pair of dirty bands had not indicated that his province was that of a spiritual man-midwife. He professed to believe the new birth, and was himself a living proof of his doctrine;

for, without a metaphor, it was necessary for a man to be born again to become like him.
NEAR him sat a couple of females, who seemed to be mother and daughter. The mother, I soon discovered to be a disciple of the respectable pastor I have just described, but the daughter, a fresh girl about sixteen, did not seem to have much of the devotee about her.
THE remaining passenger was a young fellow in regimentals, who was standing by a window, with his back to the company, when I entered. He came up to me, and, after common compliments, we entered into conversation without regarding the others, of whose social powers I had already entertained a very contemptible opinion. He acquainted me that he was an ensign in the 40th

regiment, was going to head a recruiting party at Bristol, and at the same time gave me a sketch of the characters of his companions, as I have just now hinted.
WHEN supper was brought in the Methodist rose up, and, inclining himself forward, not in the graceful attitude of an orator, but, rather, in that of a person labouring under the operation of an emetic, treated us with a grace of a quarter of an hour's duration. The school-master appeared somewhat chagrined, whether on account of the usurpation of his office as chaplain, or the venter famelicus qui aures non habet, or both, I shall not pretend to say; but I observed, during the course of the evening, that he and the Methodist were irreconcilable enemies to each other.

AFTER supper, and the circulation of a glass or two, he arose to put in practice the same manoeuvre, but was opposed by the school-master, who objected to it as, not only unnecessary, but, pharisaical. This produced a warm altercation, in which the Methodist had manifestly the advantage; for, being well read in scripture, he undertook, with great calmness, to prove, that the school-master was a limb of the whore of Babylon: whereat the other was so enraged that he lost all power of utterance, and stood gasping like a cat in an air-pump.
WE joined the Methodist, (who proceeded in his quotations without regarding the mighty rage of his antagonist,) and by that means put him into so good a humour, that at the request of the old lady, he consented to give us

an exhortation. For which, and its consequences, you must wait till next post, for at present I'm quite tired.
Your's, &c. T. MAITLAND.

LETTER XIV. Mr. MAITLAND, Jun. to STAFFORD OSBORNE.
Dear OSBORNE,
I WROTE to you, last post, an account of my arrival here, and promised to let you know the sequel of my road adventures, which, without further preamble, I here continue:
THE Methodist had planted himself on his knees, in a great arm chair, and was raving on in his exhortation, while I was cursing my stupid brains that had not yet hinted any propable scheme of diversion, though with such admirable subjects to practise on. "Who," said he,
was St. Paul? Did he ride in a coach? No. Was he a bishop? No. Did he preach in a great church? No, No, No. It was in the fields,

my brethren. He cast out devils, and healed the sick. I once knew a poor woman, at Bristol—a very poor woman,—but rich in faith,—and she had experiences,—and was in a good way,—and she sought after us that teach the true way,—and the devil came,—and she saw him,—and he appeared unto her,——even the roaring lion, and he roared,—and she ran out of the house, and came to me,—and she wept bitterly,—and I said unto the devil
—

AT this instant, Sam and Stamford's servant, each with an extinguisher put out the candles, and the devil stood confessed to the view of the affrighted preacher. He did not stop to recognize his Bristol acquaintance, but, oversetting the chair, made his escape up the chimney. The ladies screamed horribly, and the officer drew his sword,

and made a pass at Mons. le Diable, but, finding it had no effect, exclaimed, "Lord have mercy on my poor soul!" threw down his sword, and, in endeavouring to remove himself farther from the object of terror, overset the table, with the bottles and glasses that were on it. Stamford and I were not a little startled at the presence of so unexpected a visitant; though we soon discovered it to be the effect of a magic lanthorn, which, it afterwards appeared, Sam had borrowed of a Jew, who was then in the tap-room of the inn.
DIRECTED by the rays of light, I perceived the instrument standing on the chimney-piece, which was the occasion of this phaenomenon, and removed it time enough to prevent a discovery. The servants immediately came in with lights, and, with some difficulty, got the Methodist down the chimney.

Our school-master, having left the room previous to the exhortation, escaped his part of the fright, but the share he had in an adventure which followed left him no great cause for boasting.
WORDS cannot describe the figure the poor devil of a Methodist cut, when extracted from his sooty hiding-place. The natural hollowness of his visage was augmented by certain lights and shades, acquired during his residence in the chimney, and a ghastly and idiot stare the remaining fright had left on his countenance. He looked round the room with a sort of timid caution, that demonstrated how unwelcome a return of the apparition would be, and it was long before he could recollect any of his fellow-travellers. The ladies bore it very well, all things considered, and the officer was particularly serious on the

occasion; while Stamford looked at me with enquiring eyes, and I gave Sam credit for the whole contrivance.
'TWAS in vain to think of sitting down again, as a company, and, therefore, I called Sam to show me the bedrooms, which were on the same floor, opening every one into a long gallery that faced the court-yard.
THE suite of rooms consisted of four, in each of which were two beds. The old lady and her daughter took possession of one, Stamford and I another, and the school-master, entering a third, was followed by the Methodist, whose fears of another visit from the prince of darkness had impelled him to make sure of a companion. The officer, of course, had the remaining chamber to himself.

WHEN Stamford and I were alone we interrogated Sam about the trick he had played on the apostle, and received intelligence that another plot was in agitation, to prevent their over-sleeping themselves. Stamford objected to it, as cruel, and thought it might possibly hurt their understandings; but I overruled it, and, about midnight, he began his operations.
THEN it was that the clattering noise of some quadrupede animal was heard in the gallery, which seemed to shake with the burden. Our preacher discovered, by an ejaculation or two, that his afflictions had kept him waking; but his companion manifested no other signs of life than a profound nasal trumpeting, which, at a distance, might have been mistaken for a couple of sawyers at work.

THE Methodist was not long in suspense, for the sound of hoofs approached his chamber, the door of which flew open and admitted the cause of his apprehensions, who addressed him in these words,
O thou sinful wretch, deceiver of the simple, calumniator of the good, and liar to the community, thy time is accomplished, and I, thy evil genius, am come to convey thee to the gloomy mansions of despair. I appear unto thee in the shape of an ass, because thou art an ass, and command thee to arise, and mount on my back, which if thou delayest to perform, I will tear thee instantly to pieces.
At this threat I heard the frighted wretch get out of bed, sighing and groaning, and, the instant after, roaring with all his might. The apparition, on whose back he had mounted, began to bray, and issued out of the

room with great impetuosity, nor stopped till they arrived at the stairs-head, whence down they both tumbled together.

ALARMED at this circumstance, Stamford and I hurried after them, and found the preacher lying on the ground, alone, in his shirt. Lifting him up, we perceived he had sustained no other injury than a few bruises, and the fright, which had made him almost stupid. We conveyed him to bed, in the room where the officer had been, and ordered a servant to stay with him, while we went to enquire into the particulars of the adventure, from the school-master.
THE knight of the ferula was covered over head and ears in bed, where he had lain during the whole confusion, not having had courage to rise. A violent perspiration had wetted the bed-clothes almost through, and, on his peeping

forth, our noses were informed that solids, as well as fluids, had escaped him, in his fright. He was so much cheared, at our appearance, that he found utterance for his surprise, which thus broke forth, and mingled with the potent effluvia:

OH, gentlemen! little did I think, when I left my native country and ventured up to London, that I should have joined in the society of the children of darkness. That fanatical wretch, who with these eyes, I saw riding to hell on the back of a fiery jack-ass, has given me such a shock, as, I fear, I shall never recover. Alas! even now I perceive my intestines are relaxed, and the contents of the viscera are here and there dispersed in the bed. I am become as lank and flaccid as a half blown bladder. My nervous system is destroyed, and I question if my members will ever

regain their proper tone. Lend your kind assistance, that I may rise and get some refreshment. Nature abhors a vacuum, and my poor bowels approach but too near to that state.

WE could not refuse our help; but, on raising him up, the fumes of the egesta, here and there dispersed, as he expressed it, became so powerful, that we let him down again, and covered him up, advising him to wait till we sent a servant, with linen and other requisites, to enable him to appear as became a man of his consequence.
GOING down into the hall, we found every body in the inn dressed, and in full conversation on the event that had disturbed their repose. Various were the conjectures formed on the occasion, for, the parties concerned being absent, no authentic intelligence could be gained.

This continued till the arrival of the school-master, who entered, tolerably cleansed, and immediately fortified himself with a bumper of brandy. After which he proceeded to tell us that, being in his first sleep, he was suddenly roused by a dreadful voice that exclaimed,
I am thy evil genius!
on which he immediately started up, and, drawing his curtain, perceived the room was filled with a blue, sulphureous flame, in the midst of which appeared a spectre, larger than an elephant, with fiery horns, but in the shape of a jack-ass. That the Methodist got out of bed, howling and weeping, and mounted on the back of the hobgoblin, which after diverse frisks and nefarious gambols, roaring in the mean time most dreadfully, on a sudden vanished in a flash of lightning. In consequence of which, and the intolerable stench of brimstone, he, the narrator,

was compelled to evacuate the whole quantity of aliment then in his body; which shot forth, neither more nor less, than as if exploded from a wind-gun. That moreover, he lay in a trance, f•om that instant, till the coming of the two gentlemen into the room, and concluded with assuring the company, that he had no doubt but that horrid wretch, the Methodist, was now receiving the reward of his misdeeds.

IN the morning I visited our Anti-Mahomet, who had almost rode to hell, instead of heaven, on an ass; and, to my great surprise, found him sitting by a table, with a leathern ink-horn in his hand and writing. After enquiring about his health, and expressing my admiration at the extraordinary occurrences of the last twelve hours, I begged he would, if possible, explain the cause of those appearances.

"Last night," said he,
after the visitation of the Evil One, I sat on my bed, ruminating, with inward anguish and manifold groanings of the spirit, on my backslidings. It is written, 'Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.' Instead whereof, I retired with some haste, and gave place to the adversary. Oh, wretched man, for this cause it was permitted unto him to scourge thee, even with whips of scorpions. While I thus wrestled with the corruptions of my heart, lo, it thundered, the bed trembled beneath me, and one of the angels of perdition stood in my sight. He had one eye that glittered like the moon, his nostrils resembled a glowing oven, and from his posteriors came forth flashes of lightening. At first I was frightened, which the devil perceiving, snatched

me up in his claws, and carried me through the air with amazing swiftness: but I soon recollected myself, and compelled him, by the force of my adjurations, not only to set me down, but also to disclose many secrets of the invisible world, which I intend to publish under the title of 'News from Tophet;' being a relation of the extraordinary dealings of the spirit with John Wisely, and also of sundry buffetings of Satan, sustained by him in his ministry. Necessary to be read as a warning in these later days of iniquity. Recommended by the Reverend Mr. Filcher. Sir Rueland Howl will give it a good word in one of his sermons, and, without doubt, it will be purchased in great numbers by the children of grace at the door of the tabernacle. Whence it shall come to pass, that

the truth will prevail mightily, and great gain shall arise therefrom. Moreover, it would cause me to rejoice in spirit, to behold your name in the list of my subscribers.

THOUGH this narration was a masterpiece of lies and hypocrisy, and though I knew his publication would be a shameful imposition on the credulous multitude, yet I could not forbear noticing his last request, by slipping a couple of guineas into his hand. This unexpected benevolence surprised him so much, that he was at a loss to express his acknowledgments. He assured me, that his heart leaped within him at the prospect of my approaching conversion; and that I might depend upon it, that this money was the best I had ever laid out in my life, as it had purchased me the reversion of a seat among the celestials.

I thanked him for the cheap bargain he had let me have, and left him to the compilation of his pamphlet.
SOON after which we mounted our horses, and arrived at Maitland-hall by the evening.
THE whole of the aforesaid dreadful adventure consisted of nothing more than Sam's driving an ass into the preacher's room, behind which he stood, and, in a feigned voice, uttered the threats that obliged him to mount the creature, which carried him down stairs out of its own mere motion and private judgment. The thunder was the ninepin bowl trundled across the room, and the lightening was manufactured from a pennyworth of rosin, and the end of a candle, stuck in a tobacco-pipe, and blown into the room at proper intervals,

by Stamford's man, Sam's assistant. The other embellishments proceeded entirely from the active imaginations of the relators.
I DARE say you think it strange that I have wrote two letters without mentioning my marriage that is to be. Miss Stamford is a remarkably beautiful girl; but, was either indisposed, during my stay, or, wants that vivacity that is so particularly engaging in her sex. But she has sense and judgment, and will do well enough for a wife.
MY father still continues his researches. We are as mathematical as ever.
I remain,
Dear OSBORNE,
Your's, &c. T. MAITLAND.

LETTER XV. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. STAMFORD, Jun.
Dear Sir,
MY little anxieties, which rose in spite of me every time I recollected the facing of an audience, are, in a great measure, removed. I have played, and met with more applause than it was possible I could deserve. Appearances at first, indeed, were not so favourable; the moment I went upon the stage I was saluted from a corner of the gallery with a piercing hiss. It is impossible to describe my feelings when I heard it, and, had not the greater and the more indulgent part of the spectators immediately overpowered this mark of disapprobation, I should certainly have been obliged to retire, or have sunk to the floor, my trepedation was so great. I

felt ten thousand aukwardnesses, the moisture departed from my mouth, my knees knocked together, my lips quivered, my throat became parched, my heart fluttered, and a qualmish sickness seized me. What gave me courage, sufficient to proceed, was the behaviour of a young gentleman, of rank and fortune in this place, whose name was Westwood. Immediately, when the hiss began, he jumped up from his seat, in the pit, for we have no boxes here, and, as soon as he could be heard, reproached the dissatisfied aloud, in a very spirited and pointed manner; and offered ten pounds to any man who would secure the next person that interrupted me; then addressing himself to me, said
Bravo, Mr. Alwyn, take a little time, recollect yourself, Sir, and let me hear who dares insult you again, damn me if I

don't go up and twist the first fellow's neck round that attempts it.

THIS apostrophe was the best cordial that could be administered. My powers returned enough to enable me to make a very respectful bow to the audience, and to young 'Squire Westwood in particular; which was answered by the spectators, with the loudest marks of approbation, three times repeated; and I heard several commendations on my person and deportment, before the house was quiet sufficiently for me to proceed, which gave me great encouragement.
I SHOULD, perhaps, be vain upon the fame I acquired, and the plaudits I afterwards received, were it possible for me to enjoy pleasure, and were I not conscious that a vast deal, if not all, of these favours, may be placed to the account of

good-nature, and the patronage of Mr. Westwood, who is universally beloved. After I had finished my part, most of the people in the pit left the house, and did not stay to see the farce, which was played to the gallery. Several of the principal gentlemen came behind the scenes, and insisted upon my going to supper with them; but as they were in different parties, that they might not embarrass me, and out of respect and gratitude to the behaviour of my young spirited patron, they permitted me to go with him, each laying me under the injunction of a visit in turn. I received likewise an invitation to their assembly on Thursday next, at which I perceived my brother comedians were a good deal chagrined; for, as I have since learnt, one of them, no longer ago than the last time that they were here, was insulted for attempting to join with the gentry in

this amusement, and the comedian being a man of spirit, had his opponents been as valiant singly as they were conjointly, the affair might have been an unhappy one. I am not therefore determined, at present, what measures I shall pursue in this business.
I AM informed, that the hissing that was heard on my appearance, was the effect of a party raised against me by the chicanery and malice of a Mr. Truncheon Stentor, the person who used to play the character of Romeo, previous to my arrival in the company, and who, they say, notwithstanding that he is become old and decrepit, is most tenaciously fond of appearing in youthful characters. I, however, do not believe this report, but attribute it to the detraction of the actors, who, I perceive, circulate a thousand little, mean anecdotes,

which place their brethren in ridiculous or unfavourable attitudes. Stentor, instead of seeming envious, attended me during every rehearsal, told me the entrances and exits; instructed me in several stage manoeuvres, that were, not only very serviceable, but, absolutely essential to me; stood behind the scenes, gave me the greatest encouragement at first, and encomiums afterwards; in short, instead of manifesting the least rancour, or ill-nature, afforded me every assistance in his power, and was exceedingly pleased with my success. I, therefore, suppose my own embarrassment and aukwardness, which, perhaps, I was too sensible of, showed me to a disadvantage; and some, who wished to pass for critics, hissed more to prove their judgment than out of any malevolence to me, to whom it was impossible they should have conceived any

personal disgust, and who, it is not probable, were to be influenced to any such meanness as the supposition contains.
I WAS received by the parents of Mr. Westwood, who were not at the play, with an affability that has given me a high idea of their superiority and goodness; for indeed I know no title to superiority but what is derived from goodness. He is their only child, and the reciprocal delight which they afford to each other is very apparent and pleasing; they live upon the most friendly terms among the gentry of Kendal; several, therefore, who heard that I supped here, came in with the utmost familiarity, and behaved to me in such a manner as could not fail to give me pleasure. Mr. Westwood, and some of his friends, are great admirers of music. After supper we had a little concert, in

which I assisted alternately on the violin, the flute, and as a vocal performer. They have no elevated ideas of taste, and appeared astonished at the specimens I afforded them. Music, indeed, is so much my delight, that if it were possible I should excel in any thing, I believe it would be in that: but, however great the natural abilities of the people who were present might be, yet, as they have no opportunities of hearing good performers, I do not so much wonder at their surprise. It is in vain, dear Charles, that I endeavour to be cheerful. I cannot remember the name of happiness without recollecting your sister. Maria and Maitland haunt my imagination. Tell me, Charles, will not his wild and excentric temper be very opposite to the mildness of my poor Maria. Tell me if you think she can be happy with him. I am afraid not.

I fear those extravagant sallies, into which his ungovernable fancy hurries him, will alarm her delicate mind with continual inquietudes. Yet why should I fear? He must be insensibility itself, if he could bear to give such an angel pain. Oh my friend! how blessed, beyond all possibility of increase, must the man be who calls Maria his! But who is he that can say, with justice, he deserves such a blessing? What are riches, honours, titles or power? Can they afford the happiness that may be found in the conversation, the smiles, the tender attentions of the lovely Maria? My only consolation is, that I can never merit her. I shall never behold him who can. Where is there, in all the works of nature, an object so perfect as a beauteous female, when her passions are in unison with her features? Such is Maria.

Around the spacious landscape rove,
The Naiads haunt, the Triton's bed,
Search every grot, and every grove,
Where art and nature beauties shed:
Whate'er is rich, whate'er is rare,
Whate'er is worthiest to be known,
Collect from sea, and earth and air,
From fossil, plant, or precious stone.
While wonders then with wonders vie,
And latent miracles dispense;
While this attracts the raptur'd eye,
And that allures the ravish'd sense:
Attentive, while the busy sage,
Delighted marks the boundless store,
Exulting, swells the learned page
With secrets unobserv'd before:
O come, in all thy native grace,
Maria come, and bless the view,
And every former beauteous trace
Shall vanish like the morning dew.
Adieu my friend, H. H. ALWYN.

LETTER XVI. Mr. STAMFORD, Jun. to Mr. ALWYN.
Dear HARRY,
MAITLAND and I arrived here on Tuesday night, and though I cannot say without any adventures on the road, yet without any worth relating in a letter. Old Mr. Maitland received us with a cheerful welcome, that prepossessed me in his favour, and has walked with me this morning over his farm. He is very different from the sort of character I had previously formed in my mind. Not at all morose, or dogmatical; but, on the contrary, cheerful and entertaining; his fancy, stored with the beauties of the classic writers, has shown itself in the environs of his house. It is situated in a vale, that

might vie with the celebrated Tempé. At some little distance runs a river, whose craggy and romantic banks engage the attention, while the fossils in its bed afford an endless fund of amusement for the naturalist. To the north, on a rising hill, stands an elegant temple, on eight Corinthian columns of variegated marble. This is his observatory, and is well furnished with instruments, by the most capital makers. The view, from hence, is pleasing beyond description. Several natural openings, in the groves which surround the house, discover a variety of prospects, each of which has its peculiar beauties; and grottoes, alcoves, with other little edifices dispersed here and there, conspire to lull the imagination into a delightful tranquillity.
Here could I ever stray, while the wrapt mind
Recalls the long lost tale of many a hero,

Or many a sage, who, from the mountain top,
Unwearied, watches Cynthia's silver course,
When nightly, from the east, slow rising, she
Illumes the azure heav'n with soften'd light.
As we walked together, through these pleasant scenes, our conversation turned on a variety of subjects, but all of the literate kind. He was pleased to observe, I had a taste for the sciences; and I, on the other hand, was surprised at the refined judgment he displayed in matters of imagination, having expected to find him immersed in mathematical speculations. He certainly abstracts too much, and expects to attain a state of knowledge beyond what our faculties are capable of. The objects of taste, says he, it must be allowed, constitute in themselves the nobler exercises of the soul: the philosophy of the passions is worthy the attention of mankind: the source, the ultimate basis of morality

is of the last consequence to society, and well deserves to be enquired into.—But we lose ourselves in conjecture, instead of seeking for demonstration. Would not you smile, Mr. Stamford, at the sage, who, to explain the motion of a planet, should say it proceeded from a motive faculty, instead of investigating the respective momenta and directions of the projectile and centripetal forces? Is not certainty in the lower steps of science an acquisition more to be prized than the declamations of prejudice, or the endless maze of proofs founded on hypothesis? Nay, rather, ought we not first to make ourselves perfect in the rudiments of knowledge, before we pry into the arcana of the more subtle motions of intellectual substances? Demonstration is not confined to quantity alone. Ideas of the great and beautiful in nature, in sentiment, in ethics, and

in all the branches of the sentient faculty, are as perfect as those of quantity, and their congruity with each other as perceptible. By the immediate application of two ideas an axiom may be formed. Definitions of terms should be premised; and, by the intervention of a chain of immediately concordant ideas, we might connect the proposition and consequence. Whence demonstration would be accomplished, and a man would no more doubt the beauty, order, or moral fitness of a well-grounded assertion, than the truth of a theorem in Euclid.
YOU will perceive the turn of his mind by this specimen. The same mode of thinking accompanies him in his other pursuits. He is constantly employed in some research, either in the intellectual or material world; and,

his faculty of drawing conclusions from experiments, is admirable; though it sometimes subjects him to errors, of which his son seldom fails to take advantage, he being possessed of capital talents for placing every object in the most ludicrous attitude. The country people are of opinion, that the old gentleman can conjure, and say that the little temple, on the hill, was built nobody knows how; but the parish clerk, who pretends to be very wise, says it was done by geometry, all in one night. Mr. Maitland is too rich to be a wizard; but I am informed, that an old woman, who lives in a hut, on the verge of his farm, has the reputation of doing all the mischiefs that they are pleased to ascribe to supernatural agents. This report is the more confirmed by several visits he has lately

made her, doubtless, with a view of relieving her necessities.
HIS house is of a moderate size, and elegantly finished in the modern stile. The simplex munditiis is seen in every part of it, unless I may except certain apartments, which are consecrated to philosophical uses. He has a variety of the best apparatus, which, according to the tenor of his prevailing study, is dispersed on stands and tables appropriated for its reception. I promise myself much amusement from hence, when the weather confines me at home; but am too great an admirer of the more obvious phaenomena of nature to stay within, when I can enjoy myself in the open air.
YOUNG Maitland makes the most of his time in hunting or shooting. We see

very little of him, except when he has the complaisance to assist at some philosophical research, in doing which he is so ingenious at finding means to exercise his risible faculty that I wonder at his father's patience.—A propos of this youth, he is no favourite with my father, and still less with Maria. I am convinced, if the intended match takes place, it will be more out of regard to his promise, and the steps he has taken in the affair, than to any wish he has to proceed.
I am, Dear Harry, your's sincerely, C. STAMFORD.




LETTER XVII. Mr. WESTWOOD, to H. HANDFORD, Esq
Dear SIR,
I RECEIVED your favour of the 14th inst. and shall proceed to give you an account of a phaenomenon that has lately appeared here. A young fellow is arrived from London, to join a brotherhood of players, who usually make us a periodical visit at this season

of the year. His person is complete and elegant, his voice remarkably sweet and articulate, and his deportment that of a perfect gentleman. It is impossible to look on him without feeling an immediate prepossession in his favour, which increases the more he is seen and heard. He played Romeo last Friday evening. It was his first appearance, yet I never beheld a performance that gave me so much pleasure; such pathetic tenderness; a voice so sweetly plaintive and amorous, attended with an air of so much sincerity, that it was imposible for any one who did not feel, or had not felt, the passion of love to have been so expressive. But, from what I have observed since, I have taken it for granted that he is, at this instant, under its influence. Whether he is or no, I am certain all the women in Kendal, young or old, that have seen him, are; and the rest soon

will be. For there is more gazing after him when he makes his appearance in the street, than there was at the last comet. No wonder, he is master of every accomplishment, without any seeming knowledge of superiority.
I prevailed on him to sup with me after the play. His conversation and behaviour more than confirmed every thing I had conceived in his favour. His abilities seem to have no bounds, and, after supper, we furnished him with a fresh opportunity of displaying them, by introducing a little concert, in which he might be said to be the only performer, since he was the only one that was listened to. He sung and played, and with so much taste, passion, and expression, that every body was amazed, as well as delighted. I dare say you think I am drawing a very extravagant picture, but, I can assure you, all, who have seen

him, speak of him as the most agreeable and extraordinary young fellow they have ever known.
YOU must understand I had occasion to do him a little service, by rising up his champion on the night that he played. He is so sensible of this trifling favour that he thinks he cannot enough admire my generosity. It was thus: Notwithstanding the surprise and pleasure the spectators were under, when he came upon the stage, at the beauty of his figure, there issued from some part of the gallery a loud hiss. The effect this had upon him was very extraordinary; the blood forsook his cheeks, his limbs tottered, and his whole frame was thrown visibly into great disorder. I was so shocked at their rudeness and injustice, that I could not conceal my rage, but jumped upon one of the seats in the pit and harangued the mob, pretty

much, I believe, in that kind of language to which they were accustomed; and, as I am rather a favourite, with some of them, my declaring on the stranger's side soon overturned the party that was formed against him; for, I am certain, that ill-judged attack could proceed from no other cause. From this time to the end of the play, nothing but the loudest marks of applause were heard at every opportunity, which were not bestowed upon an ingrate; the effect that this encouragement had upon him was visible, and the disorder, which the ignorance and malice of the dissentients had put him into, was a strong proof of his modesty and sensibility.
HE received an invitation to our assembly, which, he has since told me, he believes, from motives of prudence, he must be obliged to decline. It seems the

last time the comedians were here, and while I was at college, one of them, who, from his behaviour and talents, was entitled to respect, not supposing it any deviation from the rules of decorum, came, one evening, to the assembly, upon which two or three coxcombs, led on by 'Squire Bullhead, a contemptible, overbearing puppy, whom you have heard me speak of, finding themselves affronted, insisted upon his being turned out of the room. Bullhead was the spokesman, and, coming up to the comedian, said, in a very insulting manner,
Pray friend, does strolling actors ever larn to dance?
The abruptness of this impudent question, for a moment, disconcerted the comedian, but, recollecting himself, he answered,
Some of them, Sir, and as easily as some rich country boobies learn insolence.
Do you call me booby, Sir?
—
Why Sir, to be

sure I mentioned something about Booby, or Bullhead, it is not material which, I believe they are synonimous.
—Nonimus! Sir, you are a nonimus vagabun, and so I desires that you will quit this here room.
That I shall without farther ceremony, Sir,
said the player,
and I desire you will do me the favour to follow me.
Bullhead either did not, or would not understand this intimation, but remained, amidst the titters and sneers of the company, muttering something about teaching such impudent vagabun rascals to trude themselves into the ciety gentlepeople. The comedian was not so satisfied, but wrote a card, the next day, requiring Bullhead to meet him, and either bring his sword, or a case of pistols. This paper terrified the fool out of his wits, and he ran blubbering with it to his wife. She posted away to show it to her father, who is an

acting justice. The man of the quorum sent immediately for the manager, and threatened to throw him and the whole troop in jail if he did not interfere, and prevent this affair from going any farther. The comedian, at the intercession of his brethren, dropped his revenge, but not till he had procured a paper, signed both by this redoubted 'Squire and his father-in-law, the purport of which was, a promise not to molest the players, nor, by any means, endeavour to prevent their coming to Kendal as usual. A night or two after this affair happened the Beaux Stratagem was played, and the audience burst into an uproar of laughter, when Scrub says,
If our masters in the country receive a challenge, the first thing they do is to tell their wives, &c.
and 'Squire Bullhead became the jest of the town.


NOTWITHSTANDING this, I hope we shall overcome the scruples of our young Romeo. The girls are all dying to see him dance, and have protested they'll none of them refuse him for a partner; one or two of the Bullhead connection excepted, who affect to turn up the nose at this extraordinary complaisance to a player.
Adieu, dear Sir, And believe me sincerely your's, G. WESTWOOD.

LETTER XVIII. T. STENTOR, to J. DRUMSHANDRUGH.
Friend JAMES,
I PROPHESIED what would come to pass. I knew well enough how it would be. This Alwyn leads the people in a string. I foresaw it.—Old servants are forgot.—I hate such cursed ingratitude, but I never met with any thing else from the public, even in my youth, so I must not be surprised at it now. I have been their slave long enough for nothing, and now I may starve and be damned, for what they care.—Not but I planned matters pretty well too. The youth was staggered. He was not used to stand fire, and would have given ground at the first discharge, if he had not been supported by the

pit. I have been tolerably cautious, and he has not the least suspicion it was I who directed the battery of hisses that was played off at him; though some of my good friends in the company took abundance of pains to persuade him to such a belief.—He's a greenhorn, a gull that will dive at a red rag instead of a herring. I can do what I will with him, for he believes me to be his best friend. I would have him continue in that mistake, while he continues in this company. If I am not deceived, I have already found a proper bait for the gudgeon. He thinks me so faithful that he will say any thing to me, trust me with any thing, except one. I cannot get out of him, hitherto, what he grieves about. I observe he is always melancholy, loves to be alone, and take solitary walks; sighs oftener than a weaver at a Methodist sermon,

and looks as mournful as a friar on Good-Friday. Perhaps he is in love, if so I'll find it out.
BE that as it may, there is a certain lady, of this town, in love with him. She sent for me, t'other night, to bribe me to assist her, so you may think she is pretty far gone. It seems the youth is shy, and the lady impatient; I'm glad I am called in, for, since I am to prescribe, I'll take care not to neglect my fees. She may prove a valuable patient, and promises to bleed freely, if I can accomplish her design, which is to find out who the youngster is in love with; for that he is in love, she takes for granted; and, as I hinted, I'm very much of her opinion. She has given me a troublesome task, but I have undertaken to perform it, and it shall go hard but I will keep my word. Nevertheless, as there is no knowing what turn affairs may take, I have sent my wife off

to join your company, and thank you for the trouble you have taken in the matter. She will give you this, and my best wishes. The Kendalians are all running wild after this Alwyn, and come in shoals every night he plays. They would be d—d before they would come to see a better actor. I may play to the benches, now the whim has taken them. A parcel of senseless sheep, that will follow any bell-weather, if some fool only starts up and bids them admire his bleating. He was invited to the assembly, and I took great pains to persuade him to go; I knew how it would turn out. Some among them are affronted, and though he's supported in his vanity by a few of what they call the heads of the town, I'm devilishly cheated, if he don't get a rap of the knuckles. The party that is displeased, talks pretty confidently of his vanity and assurance. It was at

the assembly he made the conquest I have mentioned. They say he dances to admiration, and some are piqued because they thought themselves neglected and him too much admired. The fellow is handsome enough, and better bred than the boors of this place; who, notwithstanding, fancy themselves great beaus, and have as many ridiculous airs as any other petits maitres; which, with their awkward rusticity are laughable enough.
ONE of these sparks, a Mr. Staple, is a lover of the lady who is enamoured of our youngster; and I shall take measures to inform him what a dangerous rival he has. He was obliged to be out of town the night of the assembly, and Alwyn by dancing with his mistress, ingratiated himself so far in her favour, that the absentee will stand a fair chance to have his congé. He is one of those brutal, head-strong

animals that are very apt to kick, even before they feel the lash, and two or three cuts will most likely make him quite resty. Let me alone to give them, I'll take care they shall sting. As for the lady, she does not seem one of your timid dames; she is a widow, a West-Indian, with all the fire of the climate in her constitution; and appears to have contracted a mighty strong antipathy to bashfulness in men. If she can but attain her purpose, she does not seem to be troubled with any conscientious scruples about the means. —I have provocations enough, and materials are not wanting; therefore, if I don't make him pack up his boxes, I'll forswear politics, and go into leading-strings. Now I talk of provocations, I must tell you, that our d—d fly-by-night rascal of a manager made me descend from Hotspur to Worcester, t'other evening; and because I ventured to remonstrate, swore

I should not play another night in the company; aye, and was mighty positive about the matter too, till the young favourite, Alwyn, inlisted on my side, and then the old yelping hound was soon silenced. This fellow, who, because he has had art and roguery enough to scrape together a few tinsel rags, and a little daubed canvass, is become as impudent and as consequential as a petty constable, or a new made justice, and much about as wise too. He takes upon him to instruct the actors; decides dogmatically upon any difficult passage, without being able to read it; settles the business of the scene, without a thought concerning propriety, and swells at the recollection of his own sagacity and importance, like an alderman saying grace after meat.—A blunder of his, the other night, in the play of Harry the Fourth, will give you an idea of his capacity.

HIS eldest son Daniel, who looks as stupidly good-natured as a half grown mastiff, played Sir Walter Blunt, and his fat-headed father personated Douglas. The termagant Scot, as Falstaff calls him, is to kill Sir Walter; but when our pudding-headed director entered, instead of slaying the knight his son, he only stood to receive one thrust from him, then tumbled upon the stage, like an overfed porpoise, gave a belch, instead of a groan, and pretended to expire. It would have done your heart good to have beheld the stupid look of the cub Daniel, who knew he ought to have fallen. The prompter began to swear the people behind the scenes to laugh, and the mother, who lisps delightfully, hearing an uproar, waddled to see what was the matter; she found the mistake, and clapping her mouth to the side

of the scene, began cursing her husband Roger in curious and well-chosen language:—"Get up," says she,
Godth cuth your showl, you old r•gething rathcul, get up, don't you know the child ith to die?
—"You lie you b—," says Roger, "I am to die."
Godth cuth your thoul, I thay, get up, the child ith to die. Dothn't the child do thir Walter, and ith n't Douglath to kill him?
—Roger, however, persisted, that he was to die, and swore he would not get up. After a while the spectators began to smoke the blunder, and listen to the curious dialogue that was passing between the dead man and his persecuting wife. You may be sure they enjoyed it, and the house was presently in an uproar of laughter; this roused the butter-brained Roger's recollection, when, finding himself in the wrong box, he opened his eyes, and, after a tolerably

stupid stare, which again incited the risibility of the audience, assayed to get up. But this was a task that he was not able to perform, for he was little less than dead drunk, so, after two or three unsuccessful efforts, he cast a maudlin look towards the wing, and called, in a kind of dismal hollow tone,
Moll! Moll! I can't get up, Moll!
Godth cuth your old rogethin rathcul's thoul,
answered Moll,
Then lie there till the day of resurrection for what I care.
Moll, Moll,—do send the Prompter on, and let him give Dan a lift with me.
Godth cuth your thoul, I'll crack your th'kul, I will,
replied Moll, irritated at the shouts that were heard through the house.—The prompter, however, went on, and Dan and he once more set him on his feet; after which another battle ensued between Douglas and Sir Walter, to the great diversion of the beholders;

and Dan was slain, amidst the clamour and acclamations of canes, hands, heels, and voices.

AS Mrs. Stentor is but a very indifferent scribe, and not the best reader in Europe, I must beg of you to take the trouble of assisting her; and, sometimes, writing for her in the correspondence which it may be necessary for her to hold with me, and place it, on the debtor page, to the account of friendship. In return, she, perhaps, may be able to do some little matters for you, any thing that she is able I know her too well to doubt of her being willing; for, notwithstanding that she has her whims and freaks, as what woman is without them, she has been a good wife to me, and lent me many a lift. She will be with you at the beginning of the week.
Your's, T. STENTOR.

LETTER XIX. Mr STAMFORD, Jun. to Mr. ALWYN.
Dear HARRY,
I HEAR, with great pleasure, though without surprise, of the favourable reception you met with at Kendal; and hope that you will pass your time very agreeably, during the stay of the company at that place. The party formed against you on your first appearance, for a party it certainly was, gives me some concern, as I apprehend, that the little malice of your rivals is capable of affording you more real uneasiness than misfortunes of a much more consequential stamp. Fortitude can bear up against the latter, but petty

insults, and mean, cowardly injuries are, too often, able to ruffle and sour the best turned disposition. Pray let me have the satisfaction of hearing that I am mistaken, and that you laugh at the mean tricks of your enemies.
THIS solitary retreat affords very little matter for a letter, unless I was to relate my excursions, which, though without variety of adventure, are, to me, exquisitely pleasing. In these delightful scenes I indulge the flow of fancy which the solemnity and stillness of the groves tend greatly to promote.
Here, melancholy, give me oft to rove,
And oft on ancient times the thought employ;
Here let me every pensive pleasure prove,
And far exclude each false, each glaring joy.

Ah! what avails the strong, the patient mind,
That wooes coy science thro' the silent night;
The sage's noble thirst, ah, why refin'd,
In vain he toils to reach the envy'd height.
What boots it tho', with patriot virtue fraught,
The gen'rous hero for his country dies;
He gives a life for those not worth a thought,
And on the crimson field neglected lies.
Were it not better, in the secret shade,
By fancy wrapt, on shadowy scenes to dwell,
To wander, musing, thro' the sylvan glade,
Or sleep secure within the bushy dell?
In simple guise are nature's wants supply'd,
By many a plant, the pale Recluse is fed;
The chrystal stream will purest drink provide,
And lonely caves afford the mossy bed.
O grant, ye pow'rs! the cool, the peaceful grot,
Where waving cyprus sheds a solemn gloom;
There let me live unknown—By all forgot,
Till weary age conducts me to the tomb.

Thus sung the Muse, by discontent inspir'd,
Whose sickening presence ting'd the groves around,
False woes she sung, with indignation fir'd,
And, for each virtue, still an evil found:
When lo! Aglaia, heav'n-born, smiling, maid,
Serenely cheerful, fill'd the ravished sight,
In waving robes of radiant hue array'd,
And shone in all the majesty of light.
Virtue, said she, nor haunts the gloomy cell,
Nor, joyless, seeks the dark Cimmerian wood;
'Tis not for man in solitude to dwell,
To brood o'er woes, or nurse the pensive mood.
The smiles of plenty beam on nature's face,
The shady alder props the burden'd vine;
For thee they bloom, for thee the feather'd race,
In chearing song, their various notes combine.
Man, selfish man, the object of thy scorn,
Behold, for thee, his toil prepares the feast,
His culture 'twas that did these groves adorn,
For thee, far hence, he chas'd the savage beast.

The hero dies—But not for sordid hire;
His soul, aethereal, asks a better meed,
A social motive feeds his gen'rous fire,
Nor love of fame, alone, that makes him bleed.
Whence did bold Curtius snatch the noble flame,
That, low, in earth immers'd the glorious youth?
Was it to purchase, after death, a name,
Bestowed by chance, more frequent than by truth.
Say, did firm Regulus, severely great,
Acquire his virtues in the hermitage?
Or, was that resolution fix'd as fate,
Gain'd from the precepts of some cloister'd sage?
No;—these the hermit knows not, taught to dose
In torpid apathy his useless hours.
He, truly selfish, seeks his own repose
In lonely caves, and dark sequester'd bow'rs.
Had all men pass'd their lives in sloth, recluse,
We ne'er had heard the poet's raptured verse;
Silent had been the great Miltonian muse,
And Shakespeare ne'er had rival'd nature's force.

Newton had never traced the comet's round.
Nor e'er the varied threads of light unwove;
The force aërial Boyle had never found,
Nor Franklin seize'd, unharm'd, the bolt of Jove.
'Twas not in indolence, supine, retire'd,
These, greatly daring, scann'd the azure dome;
Their god-like minds, with vast ambition fir'd,
Long'd to anticipate their future home.
Cease then of visionary bliss to dream,
Let superstition seek the darken'd cave,
The midnight cell, or slowly-winding stream,
Where shadowing cyprus boughs, funereal wave.
While, swell'd with every social thought, the mind
Public with private good, delighted, blends,
With glad expansion, seeks the bliss refin'd,
And, like the sun, its influence extends.
I MAKE no apology for inserting such a length of verse in a familiar epistle. I think I have a sufficient one,

when I acquaint you, that this retirement affords few ideas, but those of poetry and science. I seem to be scarce an inhabitant of this world—or, at least, I fancy myself on the verge of another. The past scenes of hurry and business strike my imagination as feebly as a dream; and those speculations, which the bulk of mankind regard as visionary, appear to me, in my present disposition, the only things that have reality. Sometimes, with Mr. Maitland, I visit the planetary regions, and admire the conjectures which his creative fancy makes of their uses or inhabitants. From thence, according to the enlarged idea of those great men, who, in a less enlightened age would have been deified, I grasp in thought the amazing number of systems that fill the immensity of space, and lose myself in the grandeur of the conception.

The vast field of natural philosophy, is a constant source of amusement, which, in these silent vales, wears an aspect, not dry and scientific, but, sublimely pleasing.
BUT such elevations bear the mind so much beyond its natural pitch, that it is impossible they should be continual. Relaxation is necessary, and in that relaxation I spend most of my time.
Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori
Hic nemus, hic ipso tecum consumerer Evo.
Adieu, C. STAMFORD.

LETTER XX. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. STAMFORD, Jun.
Dear SIR,
I HAVE had several adventures since my last to you, which, without any apology, I shall take the liberty to relate, from a supposition, that, as heretofore, they will not be disagreeable to you; having always observed, with pleasure, the part your passions took in the most trifling events, when they any way influenced the affairs of those for whom you professed an esteem.
I THEN informed you of the invitation I had received to go to the assembly; I must now tell you of my weakness in suffering their persuasions to overcome

the resolution I had made not to comply with this invitation. I believe I do wrong to ascribe it all to the force of persuasion. The human heart has its foibles; mine has, however, which I cannot always conquer. I ascribed the remonstrances of my brother comedians to their little jealousies at the preference which had been given me; this preference was flattering, and, though I endeavoured to combat that selfish idea, yet, it triumphed, even while I despised it. Not that I think any servile respect is due from the comedians to the inhabitants; the case is, the laws have, unjustly, empowered the daemon of persecution to assault the profession of a player. Narrow-minded people have taken advantage of this injustice, and placed the professors at a distance, which ignorance and arrogance, at all times, suppose they have a right to preserve;

and the want of principle and abilities in the player, too frequently, justifies this usurpation. The most uncultivated among the comedians get, habitually, and from the mere repetition of their parts, refined notions, which are several degrees beyond the sphere of the lower orders of the people, with whom they are obliged either to associate, or to seek the society of the dissolute and abandoned among the higher, the respectable part of whom are stigmatized with want of decorum, if they are known to hold any converse with men whom the law calls vagabonds. Though this is a kind of life, to which I already perceive I should by no means give the preference, except, as at present, from motives of convenience; yet my residence among these, frequently unfortunate sons of the muses, interests me greatly in their behalf; and I have reason to hope, from

that philosophical liberality of sentiment which prevails, and so nobly dignifies the present age, to see the time when none shall have the power, and few the inclination, to oppress those people, who, under proper regulations would be our best moral teachers.
I DISCOVERED an additional proof of my weakness the instant I entered the assembly-room. It is necessary for every one, in such a place, to wear a face of mirth, on the contrary, my heart reproached me. There is a delicacy in the sensations of a pure and respectful love, to which the light sports of a mind, not under its influence, is often disgusting. When I heard the sprightly notes of the pipe and tabor my feelings revolted against such quick vibrations, and I felt an unconquerable inclination towards the penseroso. I had consented to

go upon no other terms but those of forbearing to dance, if I chose so to do: Mr. Westwood, therefore, who introduced me, had not provided me a partner, lest she should be disappointed. As my evil genius ordained, there was a lady, whose partner had by some accident been detained, and who could not dance for want of one; I, not knowing her motive for sitting still, had entered into a slight conversation with her, which had not continued long before the master of the ceremonies, supposing, probably, I had an inclination to dance, came and presented her hand to me; and, the lady not expressing any reluctance, I could not be so unmannerly as to refuse; though I believe I accepted the compliment with such an awkward, and absent air, that she must certainly perceive it. The minuets were not over; we were called forth, and the lady, though

not the youngest in the room, moved gracefully enough, and acquired a share of admiration equal to those who had gone before. I perceived she was not entirely satisfied with my languor, and made several good-natured efforts to inspire me; for, indeed, a heavy partner, in dancing, is a dull companion, but they were ineffectual. I was wandering through the haunts of Maria, was discoursing with her, gazing at her, sighing for her, and all the fiddles in England could not persuade me to leave such delightful company. The lady's name, who did me this honour, is Vincent; she is a widow, a native of the West Indies, and almost as great a stranger here as I am; she is very handsome, has an easy air, a good shape, and appears to be about thirty.

DO not laugh, dear Charles, nor think me vain for what I am going to say; I wish it were otherwise, but, in spite of my ennui, I had the misfortune to please Mrs. Vincent. There is no danger to the lady's character from saying this to you; and the remembrance of one, whom I shall never forget, reproaches me for suffering her passion, although it is a thing out of my power to prevent, except by a precipitate flight, which I shall certainly make, if I hear any more upon this theme. After all, it is an awkward situation for a man, to whom love is tenderly and forcibly declared. It seems exceedingly unnatural for him, and almost shameful, to reject the advances of a fine woman. I believe it impossible, except where, as in my case, the affections are totally pre-engaged; for this reason, when I have read the story of the young Israelite, and the amorous Egyptian,

I have been apt to conclude that, beside the sin of ingratitude to his master, which, doubtless, has great influence over a virtuous mind, yet, considering the force of the temptation, which was almost too much for nature to support, Joseph had certainly a mistress of whom he was enamoured.
YOUNG Westwood appeared somewhat chagrined about my dancing, though he endeavoured to hide it. He told me, that had I not professed a desire, little short of a resolution, not to partake of the amusement, he would have provided me another partner.
THE report that Mr. Stentor was the person who was principally concerned in the opposition I met with on my first appearance was, I am fully convinced, without foundation. His

partiality and attachment to me are evident; and I find myself greatly in arrear to him for the attention he pays to my interests, by every assiduity in his power. I perceive the sneers of the other members of the company when he does me any little kindness; and understand their sarcasms, which imply, that he has a farther design than is apparent; but, as he has no point to gain, the supposition, besides its malignancy, is ridiculous. I see no reason that we have to construe a friendly desire to please into officiousness; and we all find, in some degree, a satisfaction in being loved and respected, even though the object is beneath any claim of reciprocal affection. But this is not Mr. Stentor's case; his understanding, though clouded and embarrassed by a life of poverty, is much above the level; his temper is tractable, and his

address insinuating; not, it is true, without a small proportion of flattery, and has, at times, the aspect of cringing; but the first he corrects, where he finds it displeasing; and the latter is not to be wondered at, when we consider the state of dependence in which he has constantly lived.
I CAME here for country air, and the improvement of my health; but, I fear, I shall never become the rival of old Parr, none of my waistcoats get too tight for me. My cheeks improve, rather in length than breadth; and though the colour has not entirely forsook them, yet it seems like an ambassador on the eve of a war, in hourly expectation of departing. I ought to beg pardon for speaking with so much levity, upon a subject which, though my situation renders it a light one, to me, yet is one

that your goodness and prejudice in my favour have made interesting, on your part. But forgive me; suffer the smile of resignation and melancholy to, sometimes, steal a visit. Yes, Charles, I will own, life has no charms without Maria. Death opens a friendly door for a harrassed fugitive, and welcomes him to the mansion of repose. Why then should I dread to enter? Even Maria, the lovely Maria, whom all hearts dote on, all eyes adore, must soon take refuge there. What is an hour, a year, a century? They are all equal, and Socrates and Shakespeare are, now, no longer the conscious vehicles of wisdom and delight. Where is the difference between a moment, and a million of ages, if the cold hand of death must, at last, put out the lamp? Nothing, but Maria, could bribe me to wish for life; and death, as Dryden says,

Is but a black veil, covering a beauteous face,
Fear'd, afar off, by erring nature, tho'
But a harmless lambent fire!—

GOD bless you all. I am going with this letter to the post-office, and then to take my usual, solitary walk among the wilds of Westmoreland, where pomp and luxury never, yet, had residence. There is such a mixture of the grand, terrible, and beautiful, and in so rich a style, among these vales and mountains, that I sometimes imagine I behold the spirit of Salvator Rosa, sitting on a rock, and contemplating the wonders of the scene.—Shakespeare is, you know, my favourite poet; and I never read him with more enthusiasm than in this place; the scenery is so suitable to the elevation and grandeur of the subject that it seems enchantment, and produces every possible

effect.—I have played Hamlet, and am shortly to appear in Macbeth, &c. &c. &c. Adieu,
H. H. ALWYN.

LETTER XXI. Mr. STENTOR to his WIFE.
My DEAR,
I AM much obliged to my friend, Drumshandrugh, for informing me of your arrival. I told you it would be Tuesday night before you could get there, but you always would be positive.
MRS. Vincent is as violent as ever, and meets no obstruction capable of impeding her career. She has had another tender scene with Monsieur Alwyn; but he is made of strange metal, no penetrable stuff, according to her account. He expresses himself differently,

and fairly owns that, if it had not been for a lucky interruption, he is fearful his passions would have vanquished his resolution. But he has escaped, and seems determined to avoid, from what he calls a consciousness of weakness, such melting interviews for the future. Though I can't help laughing at his stupidity, I encourage his virtuous whims, because they answer my purposes, every way. He wrote, the next morning, to the dying lady, who has shown me his billet. It is a mighty genteel one, full of compliments on her person and accomplishments; but concludes with informing her, that his affections are unalterably fixed; and, that he is fully resolved to quit Kendal the moment he hears any thing more about an affair, which were he to pursue, would sink him, even beneath contempt. Mrs. Vincent

finding what she suspected was true, videlicet, that he is in love with another, sent for me to consult upon the means of discovering who this other could be; and we could hit upon none, but that of purloining his pocket-book, in which he keeps his letters, and which I have often observed tossed in a careless, unsuspecting manner, among his things. I pretended to start at an action like this, and stated the ingratitude, and almost impossibility of it, though I believe it to be easy enough; nor did I seem much more flexible, when she mentioned a gratuity of ten guineas; but when she afterwards came up to twenty, I found my virtue mollified, and pity pleading strongly in her behalf. Accordingly, upon the aforesaid conditions, I have engaged to make the attempt, and, you may be assured, I shall not fail to magnify the difficulty

of the task. I do not, for my part, yet, foresee what advantage it will be to her, if she should make the discovery; but she is a bold designer, and revolves vast projects in her head.—She desired to see my writing, and, after comparing it with Alwyn's, asked me, if I thought I could not imitate his hand. You can't help remembering, what a devilish situation I brought myself into, the last time I practised this manoeuvre; and to tell you the truth, I have been plaguily startled at the recollection ever since. Not that this ought to have too much weight with me, for it is a trick that I have frequently practised before, and with remarkable success. I don't yet know her intention, however, I shall consider circumstances with some cautition, in this case, and take my measures accordingly.
Adieu, T. STENTOR.

LETTER XXII. Mr. STAMFORD, Jun. to Mr. ALWYN.
Dear HARRY,
YOUR'S of the 24th, was brought by the servant, who conveyed my last to the post-office. Not having, at that time, any thing to communicate relating to my sister, or the intended marriage, I was silent on that point. She and my father arrived here last Thursday; he in good health, but poor Maria very much altered. The physicians have advised the country air, and my father intends to leave her for some time, as business requires his presence in town, next week. Her disorder, it is feared, will terminate in a consumption. 'Tis of the mind, and medicine vainly attempts

to relieve, while the source of discontent remains. A calm languor, a settled melancholy has overspread her features, and, I am too well convinced, will, shortly, convey her to the last state of repose, if means be not found to prevent a union to which she is so averse.
INTIMATE as our friendship has ever been, I am apprehensive of shocking her delicacy, if I should press her to a discovery of her passion; but I am resolved to communicate my sentiments on this subject to my father, who can, with much more propriety, enquire into the state of her mind. His tenderness can surely never bear to see her miserable, but will rather favour her inclinations, when fixed on so truly estimable a character as that of my dear friend.

Wednesday Night.
THIS morning, Mr. Maitland being deeply engaged in his studies, Maria very ill, and Tom Maitland gone a shooting, my father and I were left to entertain ourselves; for which purpose we walked out together in one of the adjoining woods. I had predetermined to reason with him on the subject of Maria's illness, but he prevented me by introducing it himself.
MY friend Maitland and I, said he, have long pleased ourselves with the hope of one day seeing our families united in Maria and his son. But I now begin to be apprehensive that heaven has decreed otherwise. Our inclinations are not always in our power. The cool voice of reason may put a negative on the motions of passion, if not applied to

too late, but the will cannot cause an inclination where passion is absent. Maria, if I can judge, dislikes Tom Maitland. I do not wonder at it, for I must confess that the more I see of him, the less reason I find to admire him. The levity of his mind, which does not seem so much the effect of youth as of emptiness, his disregard of every thing serious, and that want of delicacy, which appears in his ideas of domestic pleasures, make me suspect him to be a libertine; which, if true, would be enough to make me break off the treaty, even if Maria was as strongly prejudiced in his favour, as I believe she is against him. But, whether that be true or not, it is sufficient that he is a person with whom my child can never be happy; and, in consequence, I have resolved to defer their marriage till further circumstances shall either confirm or refute my

suspicions of his real character, and the state of Maria's mind, whose filial obedience I shall never take advantage of to make her unhappy.
I ENTIRELY approved of his sentiments and resolution, which I impart to you, that you may share the satisfaction I find in the event. I assure you I receive no small pleasure in anticipating the time that will make you both happy; for such a time, I am persuaded, will come, and that I am pleased at the thoughts of the joy the perusal of this will give you.
I CONGRATULATE you on the conquest you made at the assembly, which, to any but you, would afford either a ground for vanity, or a prospect of interest. But you are above either

of these, and I hope, notwithstanding all obstacles, to see the constancy of your love rewarded. I remain,
My dear Alwyn,
Your real friend, C. STAMFORD.

LETTER XXIII. Miss STAMFORD, to Miss GOWLAND.
My dear JULIA,
MY papa and I arrived here last night. Ever since we parted, my health has been on the decline. I am much altered, since I had the pleasure of your company in town. A listless dejection, which I am incapable of overcoming, has entirely sunk my spirits, and makes every amusement tedious and disgusting. Even music affords me no pleasure, and my only consolation is, that a very short time will put an end to my sufferings. I am constantly haunted with the idea of Alwyn, whom my fancy represents as pining with hopeless love. Alas! perhaps I flatter

myself, and the remembrance of Maria is, long since, blotted from his mind. I know your friendship will make you pity, and not blame, my hapless infatuation.—And sure, to die is an atonement sufficient for my imprudence.
MY papa will come to town next week. He leaves me here for the benefit of the air, as well as for the promotion of that union I tremble but to think of. Young Mr. Maitland is here, but does not much trouble me with his company. I believe he thinks it is disagreeable, and I am willing he should, if that would tend to prevent our marriage. My dear brother is always with me. If I walk out he accompanies me, and, by the happy turn of his mind, makes these woods and lawns appear to the greatest advantage. If I am confined to my chamber, he is continually

there, and, by the tenderness of his behaviour, gives me, every day, additional reasons to esteem him. I see he wishes me to communicate to him the cause of my disquiet, but forbears to ask, lest it should make me uneasy. And why should I not repose the secret in his faithful bosom? I never had, till new, a thought that I did not share with him. He is all mildness, and I am sure would rather soothe than chide me.—Adieu, my dear, for the present. I am quite tired, and will finish this in the afternoon.
Five o'clock in the evening.
I WALKED out, after dinner, with my brother, who seemed so particularly thoughtful that I could not help enquiring the reason. You, my dear Maria, replied he, are the cause of my

uneasiness. I cannot bear to see you consuming with secret grief. Is it the approaching change of life you fear? Is Maitland disagreeable to you? If so, I am sure, my father will never constrain your inclinations. Is it love? If it is I wish to know the secret only for your advantage; if I cannot relieve your anxiety, at least, permit me to share it. He spoke this with such a tender earnestness, and my heart was already so full, that I could no longer contain myself, but burst into tears. My dear sister, said he, leading me to an alcove, compose yourself. Unbosom your griefs, and rely on me as your sincere friend; there is nothing I shall not be happy to do, to restore your peace. When I had a little recovered from the agitation, into which his address had thrown me, I acquainted him, without reserve, with my love for Alwyn. He told me

he had long since observed it, and was not without hope that a future time would give Mr. Alwyn those advantages his merit deserves; but, that, for the present, he could, in confidence, assure me, that my papa was averse to making Mr. Maitland his son-in-law, and had resolved to break off the treaty, the first opportunity.
MY joy at this agreeable intelligence was excessive. I thanked him for it, with an emotion that evinced how pleasing it was to me, while he enjoyed that pleasure which a generous and sympathetic heart receives from an occasion of exercising its benevolence.
THE remainder of our walk was consumed in discourse about Mr. Alwyn; concerning whom he told me

strange things. He is not at his mother's, as we always understood he was.—But I will relate these matters some other opportunity. I find myself much recovered in spirits since the morning. I seem to myself as if just awakened from a long dream, and, already, begin to enjoy the beauties of this enchanting retirement.
OLD Mr. Maitland has a number of particularities, but is, notwithstanding, a very good man. I shall have a thousand things to tell you about him when I see you. I am,
My dear Julia,
Your's affectionately, MARIA STAMFORD.

LETTER XXIV. Mr. STAMFORD, Jun. to Mr. ALWYN.
Dear HARRY,
I HAVE not mentioned my suspicions of Maria's regard for you to my father; his disinclination to the present match having rendered it unnecessary. Besides, I was apprehensive of the consequences, which there is no foreseeing, in an instance of this critical nature. But I have other news to acquaint you with, that will, I am convinced, afford you much pleasure. Our friendship, and the high opinion I have ever entertained of your honour, makes me tell you, without scruple, that Maria loves you, and has confessed it. No longer able to see her pining with secret anguish, I pressed her to disclose the secrets of her bosom. She has owned her love,

and the apprehensions she was under from the present treaty. I could not disapprove of a passion which I have always wished to see crowned with success; but, on the contrary, informed her that her father was really averse to concluding the business with Mr. Maitland, and would take the first opportunity of breaking it off, with honour. This assurance has had a happy effect: she has already began to recover her spirits, and is quite another person, compared to what she was a day or two ago.
THE gloomy appearance of affairs begins to clear up. Heaven, that sees your mutual worth, will not suffer it to languish without success. I am elated with the hopes of calling my Alwyn by the endearing name of brother, and of seeing my sister in the possession of him, whom of all men I most esteem. My

next letter will, I doubt not, contain more certain information; and in the mean time I must assure you, that no circumstance can place you higher in the estimation of
Your sincere friend, STAMFORD.

LETTER XXV. Mr. STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. SELDON.
Dear SIR,
I THOUGHT to have had the pleasure of seeing you in town, previous to my setting out for this place; but my daughter's health, which was daily declining, obliged me to hasten my departure. I shall be with you in a few days, as Maria, already, begins to improve; and, in the mean time, if you should be inclined to adventure with me, in the way I mentioned in my last, our clerk, Mr. Simpson, has instructions to do the needful on my part.
THE connection I was desirous of completing between the son of our old

friend Maitland, and my Maria, does not bid fair to produce those good effects I hoped would arise from it. The young man has many foibles, and, I fear, faults; all which are of that •omplexion that do not seem likely to wear off with time. He has been at college, where, if I can judge, he employed his time▪ more in distinguishing himself among the bucks of that place, than in acquiring useful knowledge; and he seems to think, that the greatest merit consists in singularity, and the power of raising a laugh. In short, he is a very empty young fellow; and the more he is known, the less he is esteemed. Maria does not like him at all, and, as I am resolved not to force her inclinations, I intend to decline forwarding the business; though I must own it gives me much concern, especially when I think how

much my good friend Maitland will be hurt by it.
MY son is well, and seems delighted with this pleasant country. He makes his respects to you, And I remain,
Dear Sir,
Your most obedient Friend and Servant, J. STAMFORD.

LETTER XXVI. Mr. STENTOR to his WIFE.
My DEAR,
I HAVE a budget of news for you. The pocket-book has been rifled, and we have made the fatal discovery. I did it mighty neatly; I watched our youngster's time for his long walk, which is customary with him every day, then went up to his room, on pretence of looking for him, but with intent to see if he had left his cabinet of secrets behind him; I mean his pocket-book, and had the good fortune to find it.
I RAN with my prize to my employer, and she read, while I wrote extracts and memorandums. We were so expeditious

that I had replaced the book before the youth returned; and, I believe, so carefully disposed the papers, that it is not probable he should have any suspicion. It was exceedingly lucky, for I had gone several times before, when he was out, and could not find it. I am of opinion that he usually takes it with him, for it is an observation, made by several in the town, that he is often seen musing, in the fields, over letters and papers, and the purport of what we have read confirms the conjecture.
IT appears, he is in love with his master's daughter, with whose brother he holds a correspondence. He has retired hither without the knowledge of his master, who believes him to be with a relation for the recovery of his health. These particulars known, Mrs. Vincent resolved to strike a bold stroke, and inform

Mr. Stamford, Alwny's master, of his love; but, lest that should rather retard than forward her scheme, as, from the milky temper of the old gentleman, there is no knowing what turn the affair might take, she has accused him of infidelity to the young lady and love to her; and, as there was no way so positive as that of showing it under Alwyn's own hand, she has bribed me, rather unwillingly, I confess, to write a counterfeit love-letter, as coming from Alwyn to her. It is done in a bold stile; and, as she has managed the affair, cannot fail of producing the desired effect; which is, to break off all connections between the Stamford family and Alwyn, for the future.
SHE has wrote an anonymous letter to old Stamford, and enclosed the counterfeit love-letter; which is so happy an

imitation, that Alwyn himself would not by the writing disown it for his. You will hardly suppose it was compunction for the youth that made me averse to the task; my own, personal security was the only motive of any weight with me; and this kicked the beam, when put in the scales of interest. I am now the proprietor of sixty guineas, a sum that the frowns of that presecuting bawd Fortunè, who procures only for idiots, has taught me to look up to with as much wonder, as an ignorant sailor would at a gilt pagoda. Some people, perhaps, who are gravely lolling at their ease, would preach to me about conscience; though, at the same time, if I wanted a morsel of bread, would have the conscience to eat their dinner with a good appetite, and let me starve. The world has continually assaulted me, and I have a right to make reprisals; all men that I

have ever heard of agree, that self-preservation precedes every other consideration; it does, however, with me. This Alwyn came here, and deprived me of my bread, at least of my fame; and must I be the pimp to his triumph, let him look to himself, he is mistaken in his man, if he imagines me so foolishly tame.
I HAVE another rod in pickle for him; I told you I would take measures to inform Mr. Staple, the lover of Mrs. Vincent, what a rapid progress the youth has made in the affections of his mistress. I have accomplished this business, and it has had that kind of effect which I supposed. Staple is bent upon mischief and revenge, but he is none of your foolish hot-headed blockheads, who, because they have received an injury, seek satisfaction in what is ridiculously called an honourable

way. He is aware, that the armour of honour was never yet found to be bullet-proof. He, therefore, goes me a wiser way to work, and hires me two or three stout fellows, who are to bestow the knout, or the bastinado, or some, equally mild, discipline upon him; nay, perhaps, proceed a little farther, if there should seem a necessity for such a procedure. My emissary, who tells me all this, is to be an assistant and Ward, the Town Bully, who, you know, is the terror of the Kendalians, the captain of the Blackguards, and the leading man at elections, is another. They are to be reinforced by Staple, and their plan is to hide themselves among the rocks, where he usually resorts; one of them is to be upon the scout, and give notice of his arrival; they are then to steal upon him, unawares, knock him down, if he makes any resistance, bind him, and punish

him as their leader shall direct. They are provided with disguises, and intend to leave him bound, after they have broken a few of his bones. I hope there will be no murder; because, I confess, that would be carrying even my revenge too far. Not that I would have them tender upon the subject. If he keeps his bed three weeks, or a month, he will find we shall be able to play without him; and our booby of a manager will be obliged, then, to come cap-in-hand, once more, to me.
I CAN never mention this last fool without recollecting some of his absurdities. He wants to have Shylock, the Jew, in the Merchant of Venice, spoken in the dialect of Duke's-place, and swears Shakspur intended it so. He is seldom perfect enough in his part to be able to repeat two lines together,

without the assistance of the prompter; and, when he blunders, always lays the blame upon others.
YOU know what a happy knack he has at mutilating. The other night, instead of angels, he wanted anglers to visit his Cordelia's dreams.
HE told the duke in Othello, a messenger was arrived from the gallows, instead of the gallies.
AGAIN, instead of saying to Posthumus, in Cymbeline,
Thou basest thing avoid; hence from my sight
—He came spluttering on, and bawled out,
Thou bass string, hence in a fright.

HE seemed in an excellent mood in this play, for discovering his talent;

for, when he should have said to Cloten,
Attend you here, the door of our stern daughter?
he asked,
Attend you here, our daughter's stern door?
—But this to you, who are so well acquainted with the booby, is superfluous.—Adieu,

T. STENTOR.

LETTER XXVII. Mrs. VINCENT, to Mr. STAMFORD, Sen.
SIR,
THOUGH I have not the honour of a personal acquaintance with you, yet, as I have, from many circumstances, reason to think highly of your character, I deem it a duty incumbent upon me to inform you, how much your reputation is injured by one, whom, if I am not deceived, it ill becomes to speak with disrespect of any part of your family.
THE person alluded to is Mr. Alwyn, who boasts of connexions and interests with your children, particularly your daughter, which, even if true,

are of that nature, which neither prudence nor gratitude admit of revealing. His ingratitude is, indeed, too apparent; and, though want of prudence is almost venial, in youth, yet, when it affects the peace and reputation of families, the person who, from motives of concern, shall warn the unsuspecting of their danger, will act consistently to those ties which ought to regulate society.
I HAVE an additional reason for my conduct. Being a party concerned, I think myself insulted by the folly and vanity of this young man.
THAT you may not suspect me of having any private pique, any sinister design, or mean resentment to gratify, I have sent sufficient proof of the charge I make. The enclosed letter, addressed

to me, under his own hand, is an irrefragable witness. His ingratitude in offering to expose the letters of his friend, your son, for which he had no reason, but to convince me that your daughter was, as he termed it, dying for him, put me beyond all patience. Not that I am surprised at the young lady's partiality in his favour; he has many specious qualities, and art enough to ensnare the affections of an inexperienced heart, especially one, whose own rectitude will not let it mistrust the sincerity of others. Before I was aware of his character, or intentions, I suffered him to visit at my house, in consequence of the protection his plausibility had gained him among the young gentlemen of Kendal; and supposing him, from what observations a first, or second interview had furnished me with, deserving of better fortune than his connexion with a

company of travelling players could afford. I am sorry, since, by his own account, you have an interest in his welfare, that I was so soon obliged to alter my opinion. Indeed I did not imagine that, because I treated him with respect, he would, therefore, declare himself my lover; nor, when I found him so audacious, that he would, by such ungenerous means as those of pretending to sacrifice another, and, perhaps, far more deserving lady, to me, endeavour to recommend himself to my favour.
I DO not mean to write a dissertation upon his conduct; but as I have, from what I deem proper motives, undertaken to inform you of it, I thought it necessary to give my reasons for so doing. His letter will best direct your feelings, and a consciousness of having discharged my duty will satisfy mine.

I SHOULD have subscribed my name, but that I think it a disgrace to have any future knowledge of such an affair, and would avoid all transactions, of every kind, hereafter, with Mr. Alwyn; neither is there any necessity, where the circumstances are so full and obvious. For the same reason, I have erased the superscription from the enclosed letter.—I am, Sir, as I would wish to be, till a more eligible opportunity offers, your unknown, but, respectful, humble servant.

LETTER XXVIII*. To Mrs. —.
Dear MADAM,
WHY will you suffer the humblest, the most sincere of your adorers, to languish in despair? The repulse you, last night, gave my ardent and ungovernable passion has, almost, deprived me of reason. Why, too cruel fair, do you delight in the misery of your faithful slave? Yet, why do I complain? Had I ten thousand lives, I would surrender them, in obedience to your commands. Suffer me to hope for an abatement of your rigour.
IS it possible that my passion can be a matter of surprise to you? To

you, who are formed to inspire the most ardent love? Can you reproach me with baseness, in sacrificing another to the influence of your matchless charms? Is not your irresistible beauty an excuse for a breach, even of the most solemn engagements? Ah, cease, angelic creature, to blame me for the effects of a passion that is too strong for opposition.
I CONFESS, I was, once, slightly enamoured with a girl; but never knew the force of love, till I beheld your unrivall'd perfections. She was the gentleman's daughter with whom I resided in London; but she was forward, and I was foolish. It was a silly affair that, I was apprehensive, might become too serious; for which reason, I pretended that my health was declining, and made that excuse to avoid a persecution from

the poor thing, who, I found, expected me to tie an Hymeneal knot with her, to which, till this instant, I have ever had the utmost aversion.
IT is no wonder that I now feel myself all love, all constancy, all ecstasy and truth. Who can think of another that looks upon you?
TO convince you of my sincerity, I will show you, this evening, extracts, or whole letters if you please, from the brother of the above lady, from which it will appear how easily I might succeed, were fortune the only object of my pursuit. Do but look with pity on my passion, and I will instantly let this brother know how much he is mistaken, when he fancies I love his sister; which I should have done long ago, but for some prudential reasons.

I AM unhappy till I hear my doom from your dear lips; and, surely, if they pronounce it, I cannot doubt its kindness. They were formed for pleasure, and cannot, twice, give pain.
THE bearer of this is my friend, and of approved fidelity. By him I hope to receive your permission to cast myself at your feet, and to prove how entirely I am,
Your most humble and sincere adorer, H. H. ALWYN.

LETTER XXIX. Mr. ALWYN to Mr. HILKIRK.
Dear HILKIRK,
NOTWITHSTANDING the depression of spirits which I labour under, an adventure has happened to me, which has surprised me so much, that I find an impulse strong enough to make me thus soon resume my pen, and send you an account of it.
THE romantic scenes which are so numerous in this country, being exceedingly delightful, and in unison with that kind of temper, which I, more particularly at present, possess, it had become customary with me to ramble

among them, usually, every day. This I find has been taken notice of.
WANDERING, this morning, by the side of a rivulet, my accustomed haunt, that washes a thousand rocky fragments, and is kept in almost perpetual agitation by the obstruction it meets with, I observed a natural cave, in a rock upon its bank, which had a winding, narrow entrance. The warmth of the day, the gloom of the cavern, and my inclination for repose, all invited me to rest, and I sat down in it. Appearances made me conjecture this had, heretofore, been the silent retreat of some one, who, like me, was devoted to melancholy. In the spot that fronted it the bed of the brook was deep, and its waters unruffled; within was a seat upon the shelving of the rock, a little worn, where one might recline, unseen, and

listen to the warblings of the inhabitants of the lonely valley. The light, through several cavities, just found sufficient entrance to enable me to read; the roof permitted me to sit, or stand, upright, and I began to regret that I had not sooner discovered a place so consonant to my taste.
I HAD amused myself, here, for some time, when I heard the voices of men; and, as I had no desire to be seen, I sat still, supposing they would soon be past. They approached nearer, and their language became distinct. Judge of my surprise, when I found myself the subject of the following conversation.

DAMN him, I'll be the death of him—I'll murder him.


WHOY, if we murder him, he'll

be sure never to foind us out; dead men, you know, tell no tales.


NO, no, I'll ha no consarn in murder, noather. Yow say he has affronted you; and if yow want to be even with him, by giving him a good, sound beating, why so, I'll lend you a hond, an I think he'll scarce be an overmatch for us aw three.


AW three! dom thee for a coward, whoy I, myself, would spin him tween my finger and thum, like a two-penny top. An, I suppooas, if we were to give him two or three hard knucks, that should chance to do his business, thou ast such a queeazy conscience thou'dst peach.


NO—dom the liars.—But, howsomdever, I doan't ought to be consarn'd in his death, cause he gum me a

guinea to pay my quarter's rent, and boy my woife a pare a-shoon, t'other day; and which, thou knowst, thou holp me spend, cause my landlord, here, promised to forgee me th'rent, and sumat beside, for this job.


AYE, aye—I'll forgive thee th'rent, provided thou dost not spare his bones; for by — I'll scarce leave life in him—I'll teach him to come to assemblies, and dance with other folks mistresses, an make love out of playbooks; damn him, I'll 'noint his carcase.


AS soon as we see him cumin, we'll put creeap o'er our feaces, and hoide till we can fall on him; and then, if we think he kens us, weest coot his tongue out, to mar his telling who hurt him.


HIS tongue! what matters his tongue, he can write, can he not?—I'll warrant he can write love-letters— Make an end of him, damn him, make an end of him—I'd stick my knife to his heart, for a farthing. I'd kill him with a better heart than ever a butcher kill'd a calf.

FROM two or three circumstances in their discourse it was that I discovered myself to be the subject of it. I looked through an aperture of the rock, and perceived they were armed with short bludgeons, which, I suppose, they had precaution enough to hide under their coats, while they thought there was any danger of being seen; and, considering the intentions and strength of the enemy, I concluded myself happy in being thus secreted from their sight. This, however, was no security; they

were acquainted with the place; and one of them perceiving somebody coming, along the winding of the valley, which they supposed to be me, they proceeded to enter the cave. What added to the horror of my situation, was, that their leader, being intent upon an evil action, and subject, I suppose, to a thousand apprehensions, drew a large knife, and was the first that approached the cavern.
THE moment I beheld my enemy advancing, my anger at the perfidious manner in which he sought revenge, for a supposed injury of which I was innocent, added to the abhorrence of being murdered, made me forget all fear, and darting from my seat, I seized the knife, and with one effort laid him at my feet. The guilt of his conscience, and my unexpected appearance and assault, terrified him so much, that, instead of

giving any proofs of ferocity, he roared for mercy in the most abject manner.
I DID not stay any longer with him, but, snatching his club, attacked his associates, and, by a successful blow, levelled one of them with the earth. The more desperate talker, and him who was so ready to accuse the other of cowardice, took to his heels. He did not escape thus; I sprang over the fallen assassin, and pursued him, and his foot tripping, I caught him almost instantly. He rose, and endeavoured to make some resistance, but I had the good fortune to prove victorious.
I HAD scarce made this conquest, when I perceived young Mr. Westwood, with his fishing rod; who seeing me thus engaged,

ran, immediately, to my assistance. I desired him to guard this ruffian, while I went to secure Mr. Staple, the leader of this glorious enterprise: the other associate, I perceived, had fled out of my reach, and has not been heard of since.
AS I came to the cavern, I heard Staple groan, shockingly; I, therefore, desired Mr. Westwood to come up, and assist me in bringing him from the mouth of the cave, he being just in that part of it where there was not light enough to discover in what condition he was: accordingly, having bound the other with a rope, which was tied round his own waist, and which, I suppose, was intended for my use, we went to Staple, who continued utttering groans, and exclaimed that he was a dead man.

WHEN we had brought him to the light, we found he had a contusion on the eye, which, from the violence of the blow, had swelled, prodigiously; but, what was worse, in falling, his arm was broken, by pitching in the crevice of a rock.
I NOW found all my anger turned to pity, and, therefore, forebore to upbraid him. I was not inclined to be quite so merciful to the accomplice. I knew if I accused him before a magistrate the affair must become public; I, therefore, bestowed a little discipline upon him, though not quite to the satisfaction of Mr. Westwood, and suffered him to depart.
WE conveyed Staple almost to Kendal, in the best manner we were able;

and he made so many mean concessions, and begged of me to forgive him so often, that I told him he might invent what tale he pleased, and tell it his own way, for that I should not contradict it; and prevailed, at last, on Westwood to make the like promise; accordingly, I hear, he reports that he has been robbed and ill treated by a thief, among the mountains.
JEALOUSY, it seems, prompted him to commit this outrage; I had danced with his mistress at an assembly, and she has been unkind to him since, which he attributes to her partiality for me; but, as I have by no means encouraged her in such a partiality, I am not to be accountable for her caprice; however, as it is an affair that I did not wish to hear any thing about in the presence of Mr. Westwood, I did not ask for any explanation,

nor did he offer any, unless his apologies for his conduct may be so termed.
I AM not so violently attached to my present employment as I imagined I should be. There is so much of the labour of a school-boy requisite, that, before the words are learnt by rote, the imagination is wearied, the enthusiastic fire, which the first reading of the poet inspires, is evaporated, and the fancy becomes jaded by repetition. The false, or dull conception, too, of the generality of the performers, is exceedingly teizing. I do not think to continue here, long, and the above adventure will rather quicken than retard my departure. I have flattering accounts from young Mr. Stamford, that would almost make me think of returning to the family.

My heart is with them, but I dare not indulge my hopes: should they prove false, it would only increase a disorder that is, already, too violent. Adieu.
H. H. ALWYN.

LETTER XXX. Mr STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. ALWYN.
SIR,
IF I were conscious of having ever acted, in the least respect, otherwise to you than as a father, I should have been less surprised at the transaction that compels me to trouble you with this. Your father was the worthiest of men, and the thought that I was repaying, in a slight degree, the obligation I owe to his friendship, added to the merit, I fancied, I saw in you, gave me a satisfaction, that more than amply counterbalanced the benefits you received from my protection and care. I can never express the pleasure I daily experienced, in beholding the image of

my dear Alwyn renewed in his son. With a truly paternal joy, I perceived the seeds of every virtue unfolding themselves under my instruction, and cherished the fond hope of seeing them come to maturity. But I am forced to give up the expectation.
THINK, Alwyn, if your soul is not grown callous to every sentiment, to every feeling that dignifies mankind— Think what I suffer in relinquishing the darling wish. I am now old; my connexions drop off; few of the friends of my youth remain; but I indulged the hope of seeing Alwyn among my children, one of the supports of my age. I can ill afford to lose the blessing; but perfect felicity is not attainable in this life, and I must submit. But I must confess, that I submit with pain and reluctance.

OH, Alwyn, much rather would I have followed thee to the grave than seen the proofs of yesterday! When did I injure you? What has Maria done? Base, ungrateful wretch! To wound me in the tenderest part! If I had not fostered you in my bosom you had wanted power to sting! Could not your vile schemes be carried on without sacrificing your father and your friend!
MY children are distracted at your perfidy; and nothing but the most direct, the most positive proof of your baseness could have prevailed on me to adopt the belief.
OH, thou fair outside, painted show of every virtue, but real sink of every vice! In future, no villainy, however great, shall shock my belief; for, if

Alwyn can smile at the fond credulity of the friend that loves him—If he can blast the fame of an innocent girl, whose greatest fault is to esteem him— If he can wound the heart of an old man, whose solicitude for his welfare has equalled that which he had for his own children, what wickedness will he not readily accomplish?
GO, false wretch, if thou hast a conscience, hell is within thee; and if that monitor exists not, proceed in thy career. Heaven is just, and hypocrisy and ingratitude, so complete, cannot, long, miss their proper reward.
J. STAMFORD.

LETTER XXXI. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. STAMFORD, Jun.
FOR God's sake, my dear friend, let me know what I have done? Have I really lost every friend I esteemed in the world? Pray send me word without loss of time. This stroke exceeds the utmost misery my imagination ever painted. O, rather, far, rather would I have chosen the silent grave, and my dear, more than father's lamentations, than this dreadful, this mysterious letter. I am sure 'tis his hand—He calls me base, ungrateful wretch. But heaven is my witness how much he is deceived. Can I wrong your angel sister? The man lives not that could do it.—Her

native virtue is a guard not to be sinned against. And, Oh my friend, is it possible for me to smile at your simplicity? Believe me, I could weep at your misfortunes, I could give my life to serve you; but never was capable of deriding the friend of my heart.
BE faithful to me in this excruciating instance. Explain to me the dreadful proofs of yesterday.
I HAVE read the letter so often, that the intensity of the thought has quite overcome me, and yet can make nothing of it.—If your father is angry at my becoming a player, still the crime is unequal to the reproach.—Maria!— My friend!—My father!—Sacrificed! Is it possible? Oh, no, no. I am distracted with the hurry of passion in my

breast. Love, friendship, gratitude, have I offended all? Miserable wretch that I am! If the most unremitted ardour, the most respectful, silent, suffering passion, be to blast the fame of the divine Maria—then, alas, I am guilty. If perfect esteem, and the confidence of every, the least, movement of my soul, be to betray my friend, then have I done it. And if daily to implore heaven to shower its choicest blessings on the head of my benefactor —if that be to wound his heart, then am I ungrateful.
NEVER did I think, my dear Stamford, to receive so keen a torment from the hand of my dearest friend and patron. The lightening of heaven would have been a more welcome visitant. Let me hear from you; if friendship

has no plea, at least for pity let me have a line.
I am, Your real and grateful friend, ALWYN.

LETTER XXXII. Mr. ALWYN to Mr. HILKIRK.
Dear HILKIRK,
I AM overwhelmed with misfortunes, I have received a letter, a fatal one to me, that informs me, I have totally lost the friendship of the Stamford family. I am unacquainted with the cause, and bewildered in amazement and sorrow. It is wrote by Mr. Stamford, senior, and complains bitterly and pathetically of my ingratitude. Nothing could add to my unhappiness but a consciousness of guilt. God only knows my heart, and how much I would undertake to serve, or convince them of my affection, or how industriously I would avoid injuring, or giving them pain. I am accused

of breach of friendship, and want of love and delicacy for Maria, but in such a vague and enigmatic, though possitive stile, that I am at a loss in what manner to interpret it. Perhaps the old gentleman is offended at my becoming a comedian, without informing him of my intention. Yet surely this offence could not merit, nor authorize the accusations I have received.
THE more I reflect, the more I am surprised and afflicted. Mr. Stamford is cautious, to a degree, how he believes any thing to the disadvantage of another; and, when convinced, is ever ready to make the most generous allowances for the infirmities of human nature. He has found out my love for his daughter, perhaps: this, doubtless, is disagreeable to him; but I am certain, this, nor no

other motive could induce him to swerve from the path of integrity; nothing but positive conviction could make him accuse me in the manner he has done, and yet it was impossible he should have that. What can be the cause? I have no enmity to any one. I obstruct no one in his prospects of happiness or pleasure. I am not of importance enough, in this ambitious world, to annoy any one, sufficiently to make him my enemy: or, if I were, who could give malice a colour strong enough to convince the good, the generous Stamfords, of the reality of my supposed guilt? It is the utmost weakness to harbour such a suspicion, and nothing but my present incertitude and distress could excuse me in making such reflections.
I HAVE wrote to Mr. Stamford, junior, but, as I am certain of the justice of his

father's proceedings, and how thoroughly he believes himself convinced of the truth of his assertions (by what strange means I know nor) I expect only a further confirmation of my misfortunes. — Oh Maria! — Forgive me dear Hilkirk — my tears will not let me proceed.
I COULD not finish this letter yesterday. I found myself so ill, and my brain so near a state of frenzy, that I was obliged to use my utmost endeavours to calm my disturbed imagination. I am little better to day. I have received a letter, from young Mr. Stamford, in answer to mine, that thoroughly confirms my prediction. The thing that I am most uneasy at, is, they have not told me what their allegations are founded on. Perhaps the explanation is what they seek

to avoid; and I will rather suffer in silence, than urge them to any thing that would give them pain. It is enough for me that I am innocent. I shall soon have no remembrance of injuries, or the injured. I find myself in the road that leads to everlasting rest, and this, only, is my hope, my consolation. It is impossible I should ever possess the only object that could make the small remainder of time, my youth might promise, glide away in tranquillity and joy; and, surely, to be released from misery is a pleasure.
I SHALL quit this place directly, and travel, on foot, across the country to my dear mother in Oxfordshire. I am daily receiving proofs of her maternal tenderness, and I wish to die in her arms; I shall endeavour to hide my griefs from

her, and from the world; in which, while I continue, you, my dear Hilkirk, shall be certain of a place in the grieved heart of
H. H. ALWYN.

LETTER XXXIII. Mr. STAMFORD, Jun. to Mr. ALWYN.
SIR,
WHY do you continue to laugh at us? You cannot, surely, pretend to say that my father's letter is enigmatic to you. It is not necessary to inform you by what means we received the intelligence of your perfidy: it is enough that you cannot but be conscious of having betrayed your friend; and that in the point on which the peace of our family, in a great measure, must depend.
YOUR proceedings are discovered. You can, therefore, have no end to serve; and an attempt to deceive must, now, be the effect of mere wantonness.

But the peace of families is not a thing to be sported with; especially after such transactions as have passed between you and us. It hurts me to be reduced to the necessity of noticing this, which nothing, but the shamefulness of your behaviour, could have forced from me: but, to prevent any correspondence on so disagreeable a subject, I am to inform you that my father and myself desire to have no farther connexion with, or application from you; and that Maria is possessed of strength of mind enough to blot from her remembrance so unworthy a character.
C. STAMFORD.

LETTER XXXIV. Mr. MAITLAND, Junior, to STAFFORD OSBORNE, Esquire.
Dear OSBORNE,
I AM much concerned to find that your letter, in answer to my two long ones, is not come to hand; and can attribute it to no other reason than its not being yet wrote. If that is the case, I must make bold to inform you, that I shall not turn historian gratis but shall expect an ample return for the narratives I transmit to you from time to time. But I don't believe I shall trouble you with many, while I continue in this place. We hold scarce any sublunary intelligence. I could favour you with an account of the number of patches the sun had on his face when he rose this

morning, or let you know the length of Venus's horns; which, by the bye, shows how different the mode in that country is from ours. I should have expected to have seen the patches upon Venus, and the horns upon Mars.
BUT, if these sublime disquisitions are above your comprehension, you are to know that we are not always super ethera. We have a hen or two that are constantly employed in the business of incubation, by whose assistance, though we are not sanguine enough to hope we shall ever arrive at the art of making chickens, yet, we think much may be done by way of meliorating the species. My father thinks it necessary to proceed usque ab ovo, on account of a difficulty he found, last winter, in attempting to produce hair, instead of feathers, on their bodies. To accomplish which desirable effect, they were divested of their natural habiliments,

and kept, for some weeks, in a room, on a grass diet; a regimen that is said to have produced the same phaenomenon in the person of king Nebuchadnezzar. But whether to the inclemency of the season, which prevented the experiment succeeding so well here as at Babylon, or to what other cause the failure might be attributed, certain it is, that they all died, just at the time when there was all the reason in the world to expect a favourable conclusion of the business.
THESE are misfortunes, you'll say, and so they are; but we bear them with philosophic resignation.
MY father has made a capital acquisition in young Stamford, who accompanies him in all his projects and enquiries; and I assist, very often, for want of better employment.

A LITTLE below our house, on the other side of the river, the bank rises with an ascent, rather steep, and is covered with hazle and other trees. At this time of the year, after rain, the ignes fatui, or will-with-the-wisps, are frequently seen descending towards the water, and, you may be sure, do not pass unobserved by us. The other night we were all three standing on the bank, when a particularly brilliant one made its appearance. My father, who is very active for his years, skipped from stone to stone, and was on the other side in a trice. Mr. Stamford followed; and I, not willing to be singular, went after; but my evil genius had so contrived it that, stepping on a smooth stone, I slipped into the water over head and ears. This sudden immersion effectually cooled the ardour of our pursuit, Stamford helped me out with some trepidation;

and my father, returning, assured me, that my misfortune was entirely owing to a due equilibrium of the centre not being preserved. However happy this elucidation might be, I did not find myself disposed to admire it, but walked home, rather out of temper, resolving to set his philosophical acumen to work on other business. For which purpose I ordered Sam to accommodate my dog Pompey in the stile of an ignis fatuus, and lead him about the lower grove at the time my father generally repairs to his observatory. He, accordingly, fixed six small lamps to a kind of saddle, which he fastened to the dog's back, and made a most shining appearance.
GADSO, says my father, turning the large, reflecting telescope towards it, a very peculiar kind of meteor!

WHAT is it like, says Stamford? There seem to be three, distinct lights, following each other at a very small distance apart.
LET us go to it, said I; and thereupon we sallied forth.
OUR pursuit lasted full two hours, at the end of which we pressed Sam and his meteor so hard that he was under the necessity of extinguishing his illuminations, which, of course, obliged us to return home unsatisfied.
YOU see what shifts I am reduced to, to keep myself alive, and, likewise, the difficulty of furnishing matter for a letter; but you, who are in the midst of whim and jollity, can have no excuse for delaying to write. Adieu.
Your's, &c. T. MAITLAND.

LETTER XXXV. Mr. MAITLAND, to STAFFORD OSBORNE, Esquire.
Dear OSBORNE,
WE have several times hunted the meteor since my last, and are, now, just returned from the chase, which has been unsuccessful, more ways than one.
THOUGH Pompey may be justly called a dog of a liberal education, and some genius, which is evident from his peculiar address at fetching, carrying, and other operations of that nature; yet it must be confessed, that his talents are by no means universal. For this reason it was, I suppose, that he did not succeed, capitally, in exhibiting the

ignis fatuus. I am even inclined to suspect that Sam was the superior agent of the two; or, to express myself more scholastically, he was the soul of the machine, and Pompey the body, or visible substance. The learned tell us, souls and bodies are sometimes apt to fall out, and this remark was exemplified in the present instance. In spite of Sam's attention and care, his animal part, to wit, the dog, was actuated with a strong desire to emancipate itself from control, which it has accordingly effected.
I AM apprehensive that he will come home with all his meteorological apparatus about him, and, by that means, discover our plot; but have ordered Sam to wait an hour for his arrival. Adieu. Supper waits. I'll finish the rest in the morning.

Friday Night.
I AM distracted—lost—undone, and have involved my father in my misery! That infernal dog came home and set fire to the house. Maitland-hall is now a heap of rubbish, and my father's strong box is lost. Good God! The torture of reflection is intolerable! I am torn by a thousand passions at once! My poor father is quite calm and resigned—He does not blame me—But his lenity cuts my heart more than the keenest reproaches. I am astonished at the folly of my past life.
CAN it be possible that a being, possessed of reason, should pass whole years in worse than indolence? Yes, 'tis too true; for I am that being! The conflict of passion is too violent for nature to support. It must end in the loss of

reason, or of life. Be it so; for existence is burdensome.
THE only good act of my life was the cultivation of your friendship. Your virtues engaged me; and even now, despairing, sick of the world, and quitting it, the last effort of my mind is employed in bidding you an eternal farewell.
Your lost friend, T. MAITLAND.

LETTER XXXVI. Mr. STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. SELDON.
Dear SIR,
A TERRIBLE accident has prevented my coming to town this week, as I intended. Maitland-hall is burnt to the ground. Happily, no lives were lost; but Mr. Maitland has suffered very much in his property, to the amount of, nearly, all he was worth. The fire began in his elaboratory, by Tom Maitland's means, but in what particular manner I have not yet had time to enquire.
ABOUT one o'clock in the morning we were alarmed by a neighbour, who was providentially crossing a foot-path that leads by the house. I started up, immediately,

but the suffocating smoke, with which my chamber was filled, overpowered my senses, and I fell, again, on the bed. What followed I was unconscious of, but, about an hour after, I found myself in a chamber at the vicar's, and Charles sitting beside me.
THE idea of the fire was still predominant in my mind; but I was unable to determine whether I had dreamt, or the misfortune had really happened. Where am I, exclaimed I, where's my Maria? Let me know, Charles, is my poor child lost? How came I here? Compose yourself, dear Sir, replied he, Maria is safe, a stranger preserved her life at the risk of his own.
AND where is this heavenly stranger? Bring him to me. Let me at least acknowledge the debt, since I never can

repay it. He knows not the value of the blessing he has bestowed. But tell me, Charles, how all this happened. I remember the alarm of fire, when the smoke overcame me, but have no knowledge of the rest.
I WAS roused, said he, by the outcries of the servants, and the thought of your danger rushed, instantly, into my mind. I flew to your chamber, one side of which the flames had already seized. The urgency of the occasion gave me a strength, which, at another time, it would have been impossible for me to have exerted. I seized you in my arms, and conveyed you hither. When my terror and apprehensions, for your safety, were, somewhat, subsided, I recollected Maria, and, in the utmost anguish, hastened back to the scene of desolation. Two of Mr. Moreton's servants, accompanied

by my man Will, were bringing her to this place, in a chair. My dear Will, said I, in a transport, how can I reward you for saving my sister.
No, Sir,
replied he,
it was not I. It was an angel that snatched her from the middle of the fire; for, to be sure, he was sent by heaven to save my mistress. The roof fell in the moment after. I asked him to stay, but he would not, he went away towards next town
. Will is now gone, by my order, to entreat him to return.

WHILE Charles was speaking, his servant entered the room.
"HE won't come," said Will,
he won't come. I told him my master long'd to see him, but he hung his head, and sighed as if he would break his heart. Poor, young gentleman!

I thought, mayhap, he believed somebody was burnt; so I told him all was safe, and that 'Squire Maitland was safe, and you, Sir was safe, and every body was safe; but, for all that, he would not speak. At last he said it was impossible, and that he was a wretch, and had lost all his friends, but that he hoped he should die soon, and forget his miseries. And so I believe he will, for he looked so pale, and so thin, and his eyes were so hollow, that my heart aches to think of it. I could not help crying, when he walked away, he seemed so disconsolate. What a pity he should be sad or sorry! I wish I could help him! I'd go to the end of the world to help him.

POOR Will's heart was full. He could not proceed; and Charles, who

had sat, silent, with the tears in his eyes, seemed lost in the sympathy of his affections.

MERCIFUL heaven, exclaimed he, rising, are the severest calamities reserved for thy favourites! O that he had returned! How happy we should have been to have supplied the place of his lost friends, and alleviated his sorrows!

TO prevent his dwelling on an object which afflicted him, without being of service to our benefactor, I desired him to enquire how Mr. Maitland and his son did, while I rose and went to Maria. She was sitting in the arms of Miss Moreton, and her maid, who, with some difficulty, kept her in bed.

"WHERE's my papa?" Cried she, struggling,
you would let me see him if he were safe. No, no, he is dead, and I will die too. We will go together.

"MY child," said I, sitting down, beside her,
look at me, I have escaped the flames.

"IS it true?" Replied she, looking at me with great earnestness,—
no, you deceive me, you are not my papa.

A seasonable flood of tears ensued, which restored her so much that she knew me, and enquired after Charles. I related the particulars of the event, as concisely as possible, and, advising her to rest, left her in the care of Miss Moreton.

I, THEN, walked to the site, on which Maitland-hall had stood, where I found Mr. Maitland and Charles surveying the ruins. From the composure which appeared in the countenance of my old friend, I did not apprehend his loss to exceed that of the house and furniture; but, on enquiry, he informed me his strong box, containing notes and securities for upwards of fifty thousand pounds, being almost all he was worth, was missing. But, said he, to a philosopher, this is of little consequence. I can bound my appetites, and enough is left. If I lose my tranquillity, it will be a greater loss than that I have just now sustained. Tom must choose one of the professions to live by; and it is not impossible but the employment of raising a fortune, may prove much more innocent than that of spending one.

I TOOK this occasion to tell him, that I had no intention of breaking off the treaty, on account of the alteration this misfortune would make in his son's circumstances; and he, in answer, said, he expected no less, from the confidence he reposed in my integrity. When I consider the sincerity of his friendship to me, and the proofs he has given me of it, I cannot bear the thought of refusing my daughter, at this time. It carries with it a mark of baseness not to be endured. Perhaps, this disaster may give a new turn to Tom's mind, and make him more worthy of my girl. If so, all will be well, and this shocking circumstance will bet productive of good. I hope to hear that your affairs go on to your satisfaction, and am, with perfect esteem, Sir,
Your most obedient Friend and Servant, J. STAMFORD.


P. S.
My son is gone to town, to give notice of Mr. Maitland's loss at the public offices, and will be with you before this letter comes to hand.


LETTER XXXVII. Mr. ALWYN to Mr. HILKIRK.
Dear HILKIRK,
I ARRIVED at my dear mother's this day week, and, if I were capable of pleasure, should receive it from the joy and tenderness she expressed, and her assiduity to make me happy.—You can scarce imagine what my feelings are, or what such a mother deserves. I am afraid she should remark the gloom that possesses my mind. I know how much it would distress her. I, therefore, make very severe struggles to smother my sighs, and am resolved, as much as is in my power, to carry my griefs abroad, and, without a figure, complain to the pitiless winds.

MY life seems fruitful in adventures, and strange incidents. I am, at this moment, oppressed and agitated with the recollection of one, which has happened to me on my journey. I know you will excuse my impertinence in continually talking thus of myself. I am not, at present, in a state of sufficient tranquillity to make observations on objects which used to amuse me. I find myself, at moments, not many degrees from insanity; and the affliction this would cost my mother, even more than the horror attending it, makes me use my utmost endeavour to forget my troubles, and ward off the blow. My efforts, I fear, will be ineffectual; though, I assure you, I have tried every method. I read, I run, I walk, and make various efforts, to divert my ideas from the channel in which they so constantly flow. My mother appears distrustful,

at times; tells me how frequently I talk in an incoherent manner, especially in the night; and I have caught myself, more than once, singing, aloud, without any meaning. I hope, however, I shall conquer this disposition. —Could I forget Maria!—Alas!—It is impossible!—Oh, memory!—Oh, Maria!—
I WILL endeavour to tell my story; Maria has a part in it.
I DEPARTED from Kendal, on the day, and in the manner that I had proposed. I travelled four days without being, scarcely, able to recollect, whether I had passed through towns or villages, had met men, women, or other objects, except such as immediate necessity had obliged me to notice; and was walking very late on the fifth, I suppose it might

be almost midnight; for I knew the country, and was so lost in thought, that I did not think of rest; when, casting my eyes accidentally up, at the noise of an owl, that flew by me, with a dismal howl, I perceived, at a less distance than a quarter of a mile from the roadside, a house in flames. I had forgot, at that moment, where I was; but made the best of my way towards the place. The shrieks of the people were piercing, and made the natural stillness of the night awfully shocking. It was exceedingly dark, and the wind rather tempestuous, with a sharp cutting rain; while the blaze cast a horrid gleam upon every object around. I don't remember to have ever been struck with so much terror. I ran, I flew, I intermixed with the frightened sufferers, who were running to and fro, in the utmost confusion; and, I thought,

I saw, by the pale glare, some faces that I knew.
IMAGINE what my sensations were, when I beheld a young gentleman bearing an old one, in his arms, through the flames, and, immediately, knew them for young and old Mr. Stamford; but how was my horror increased, when I heard a voice crying, aloud,

OH, my mistress, my mistress, my poor young mistress, she will be burnt, she must be burnt, her chamber is on fire!
—

"WHOSE chamber," said I,
Maria's chamber?
—


OH, yes, yes, my poor, dear, young lady
—


"WHERE is it? show me the way," said I, in the most horrid agitation.—
THE servant flew to conduct me; and, regardless of the flames, which had spread over the apartment, I burst open the door, darted through them, snatched up my dear Maria in my arms, and, without feeling any thing from the fire, bore her down stairs, harmless, and out of danger.
OH God! how can I describe what I felt?—I could hardly persuade myself, at first, that she was safe.—I viewed the spreading blaze! I turned to Maria! I sighed with excess of emotion! I held my Maria in my arms!—She had swooned in the fright, and did not know me; no one was near us, the servant had ran for water.—In the transport of my joy

and passion, I imprinted a kiss upon her lips.—How could I support it?— I was under the power of a wild and tumultuous extacy, and surely the sin was venial.—Oh that I had died at that instant!
THE servant returned, Maria began to revive, I was unwilling to be known and committed her to his care. I had preserved the jewel of my soul, and perceived I could be of no farther service. I heard the younger Stamford uttering distracted cries for his sister, and resolved that he should not know his benefactor, if I could prevent it; I, therefore, made the best of my way into the high road again. His sister was restored to his arms, and he was

impatient to thank, and reward, the author of her safety.—I am acquainted with his grateful disposition.—He dispatched the servant, who had observed the route I took, and who presently came up with me. The poor fellow had an honest, and a tender heart, and begged of me, with tears in his eyes, to go back with him to Maitland-hall.
"DEAR Sir," said he,
come with me, do, Sir—Let my old master, and my young master thank you—My dear, young mistress will thank you too—I am sure she will—She is the dearest, best, young lady in the world.

MY eyes overflowed—I uttered something incoherently, about impossibilities, and unhappiness; and the honest servant appeared very much affected

with my manner, which, I dare say, was rather wild.—I was agitated—I wished ten thousand things, that I perceived the folly of; and the tumults of my mind occasioned me to betray some weakness.
IT was not without difficulty, that I persuaded the servant to return; and, when he parted from me, he said, he was sure, his young master, and his old master, and his dear lady, too, would be very sorry; for they had charged him to bring me back, if he could find me.
I FELL into so profound a reverie in ruminating upon this accident, that, when I came into the road, I never observed which way I turned; and, instead of proceeding on my journey,

travelled back again. I did not discover my mistake till day-light appeared, and I had got near twelve miles; when finding the servants up at a wagoner's inn, and myself exceedingly weary, I went to bed, and rested myself till eleven the next day. The news of the fire was, presently, spread all over the country, and, almost, every one told a different tale. They all, however, agreed in some particulars, namely, that Maitland-hall was burnt to the ground; that old Mr. Maitland had lost an iron chest, in which was contained bank notes to a great amount; and, that a stranger had saved the daughter of Mr. Stamford from being burnt alive, by carrying her down the stairs, when they were all in a flame of fire. You may be certain I took all the precautions, in my power, to avoid being known; and,

for that purpose, left the road, and travelled, along, by a path, among some villages, on the contrary side from Maitland-hall. Adieu, dear Hilkirk,
And believe me to be Your sincere friend, H. H. ALWYN.

LETTER XXXVIII. Mr. SELDON, to Mr. STAMFORD, Sen.
My dear Friend,
YOUR account of the dreadful fire at Maitland-hall, affected me exceedingly. I rejoice, however, to observe, that you all escaped safe, as the other misfortune admits of a remedy, in affording which I shall be happy to assist. Please to let Mr. Maitland know how sincerely I condole with him on this unhappy business, and that I only wait his directions to do all in my power for his service.
I AM in your debt for a former letter, in which you deplore the baseness and ingratitude of young Alwyn. It is a

piece of news that I assure you I heard with some regret, for I always entertained the highest opinion of the young man's principles. But you and I have lived long enough in the world to be surprised at nothing. It might have been better, but useless grief can only make it worse, therefore, let him go unlamented. If conscience has no power to torment him, yet, we may take it for granted that, in the end, his ingratitude will meet its reward.
YOU say he is become a player. A profession that, in my opinion, contains the extremes of good and bad. The sublime and forcible lessons of morality with which our dramatic pieces abound, scarcely permit the inculcator to stand neuter. He must either assent to them, with that warmth which characterizes the good and great man, or, by a most

despicable excess of hypocrisy, counterfeit, and seem to feel, that virtue to which his mind is a stranger. According to this latter mode, Alwyn, I believe, will make a good player; and, I think, it is fortunate that this situation in life will not allow him to exercise his talents for deception in a sphere of greater consequence.
NOW I talk of players, you are to know that I have received a very good account of my youth in the country; which helps to convince me that my plan is good, though it has had the misfortune not to meet with your approbation. Weak plants, you say, must be brought forward with care. The keen blast of adversity blights them, and they never come to maturity. My philosophy says otherwise; it is that very care that makes them weak, both in mind

and constitution. My boy will arrive at affluence, with a mind that has withstood the shocks of misfortune; and will enjoy his independence with the more pleasure, as he is better acquainted with its value. I am impatient to see him, and to make Julia happy. Her ready acquiescence, in every thing I proposed for her advantage, deserves whatever recompense I can bestow, and her merit will secure the happiness of my son.
I am, dear Sir, Your real friend and servant, R. SELDON.

LETTER XXXIX. H. HANDFORD, Esq to Mr. WESTWOOD.
Friend GEORGE,
WHAT right had you to impose such a tax upon your good-nature, as to promise to hold correspondence with, and pay visits to an old humourist. A fellow who has taken it into his head that all the world, himself excepted, are little better than blockheads, jostling in the dark, running their noses in each others faces, and swearing there is no room for them to walk, with ease and dignity, as it befits their worships; nay, who confesses he himself cannot see, because of a profusion of light; but like an owl,

can fly farthest by twilight. You have some degree of rationality. How could you be such a booby? I am a techty old batchelor, Sir, and you knew it. I have neither wife nor daughter for you to seduce. I am rich; but I told you, and I tell you again, I shall never give to those who don't want.

I WONDER what such fellows as I do crawling between heaven and earth.
No child, no relation to flatter my old age, and make me believe I shall exist after I am dead.—If I were to build churches, or endow hospitals, men would swear vanity was my only motive.—Well, if they did— there would be no perjury—I wish they could always indulge their envy with as little danger to their consciences.—Between you and me, we are little better than a set of sad dogs—Rascals—Liars

—I'll take my oath to hypocrites.— You are a young man, and by what I have observed—damn flattery—one of the best of the age you live in.—But, mind what I say—You'll find yourself out, in time—I reiterate—you'll discover, by and by, that you are little better than a sad dog.—I have made this comfortable observation upon myself for some years past.—A parcel of cursed, mean, pitiful, paltry passions, teasing, teasing my heart out.—One wants one thing, another another.—Build me a palace, says pride.—Kill me some fifty thousand beggars, in red coats, says ambition, and get me a name.—Pull this bully by the nose, says revenge.—Take away that man's character, says envy.— Get to the Devil with you all, say I.

I LIE—I lie—as you may perceive— I listen to them—I sooth them—I promise

to satisfy them, if they will but let me alone, aye and I have been rascal enough to keep my promise, more than once—Why, hey day!—What the Devil am I about?—Writing my own panegyric?— Stuffing myself with my own praise? —Glib—Glib—I can swallow it as easily as blanc-manger, and digest it faster than a ploughman does hasty-pudding. —Now would I, in a fit of most Anti-Mussulman rage, destroy the paper that bears such marks of my weakness; but that I am rejoiced to procure fresh evidence against myself.
BUT, hark you, Sir, what is the reason that I have never received a syllable from you, for upwards of three weeks? —If you imagine you are to treat me thus, with impunity, I must be so free as to inform you, you are mistaken. Therefore, on Tuesday next, the 17th

of the present month, I order and command you, after mending your pen, putting small-beer to your ink, traversing your room five minutes and fifteen seconds, and scratching your head, not less than half a score times, to take a folio sheet of plain ten-penny writing-paper; and, without compliments, which are only wasting of time, and being, moreover, little better than lies, stuff me three sides of the said sheet of plain, ten-penny writing-paper, as full as it can hold, of the first materials your prolific brain shall offer.—I'll have no picking and choosing—No battering of brows, no wrinkles in the forehead, when you once begin. — Strait forward—Helter skelter—Shandy for ever—The more unstudied the more natural.—If I should discover one erasure, be it ever so trivial, with knife, or pen, dread the consequence.—I'll pester you with nonsense,

worse than a mad poetess does her husband.
I HAVE left the old pedants of Oxford to correct their pride and their pupils at their leisure; yet am I much mistaken if either undergo any considerable reform, in a hurry.—I wonder what could possess my foolish brain with the supposition of finding genius and learning, combined, in this place.— I might as well have searched for chastity in a brothel, or reason in a Methodist sermon.—But this was among my whims.—I will go and live in the seat of the Muses, said I, on the banks of the Isis, more famous than the mount of Parnassus, or the waters of Helicon.—What a booby!—I will spend my substance among the sons of philosophy, I shall be delighted and informed —they are enlightened and dispassionate,

open to conviction, and in love with truth.—What a numskull!—I shall find, among these sons of genius, some one who wants a patron, and a friend, to bring his merits forward, and show them to the world. I shall be happy to produce the fruits of ingenuity in the mart of science.—It will atone, in some degree, for my own want of talents, or misapplication of them.—What a dunderpate!—
I SHOULD be sorry, rashly, to affirm, that there are no such persons as I was in search of amongst these learned and reverend wranglers; but this I will affirm, that, instead of finding the teachers devoted to the discovery of truth, I found them dogmatical to disgust, and resolved to maintain what they have once advanced or believed, though refuted to silence.—These were the fellows,

who encouraged every author that opposed our divine Newton—not because they believed him wrong, but because he was educated at Cambridge.— As for their pupils, instead of being in love with study, vigilant, and ingenious, they are lost in riot and debauchery—
BUT I have left them, and am, now, at Swanley; where, dear George, I expect shortly to see you, who are a valuable compensation, by the friendship I contracted with you, at Oxford, for the disappointment my sanguine temper led me into.
PRAY what is become of your favourite comedian, in whose praise your last was so eloquent?—What, you are deceived?—Come, confess—You are ashamed of a too hasty prepossession?—Aye, aye—I have

suffered that kind of chagrin fifty times in my life.—A fellow with a good address, a placid countenance, and a certain knack at saying no, and yes, could get into my good graces presently; I would idolize him, become his trumpeter, or, as a certain noble author has it, his puff; swear to all my acquaintance, he was a miracle of virtue; recommend him, and assist him in his pursuits; presently, Sir, when my gentleman imagines he has neither much to hope or fear from me, he becomes proud, despises my friendship, ridicules the peculiarities which his narrow mind is capable of observing, and, as far as he is able, makes me the jest of those who are as shallow as himself.—But I have done with them —I have an oath—an oath in heaven —I'll be no more the dupe of fools and knaves.—

I MUST be exercising my pity upon some distressed devil or another—I have taken a fresh freak—I know you'll laugh, but I don't care—I have turned my house into an hospital.—For what, say you?— The lame or the lazy?—I'll tell you, Sir—I have at this instant—nine dog-horses, seven of them blind, forty young puppies, almost as many kittens, a tolerable flock of rotten sheep, which the rascally owners made me pay as much for, when they found my humour, as if they had been sound ones; an infinite number of young birds, which I was obliged to purchase, or see them devoted to destruction, besides one and twenty old cows, that are past calving.—
YOU have, doubtless, heard of the humanity of the good Indians of Bombay, who have erected and endowed an hospital

for reptiles and insects, and give any man a gratuity, who will consent to be bound down, and suffer these insects to feed upon him for the space of a night. —What a blessed institution!—With what pleasure would I devote my blood to their service, in my turn, were I there!— Indians are rational beings, whereas, in this Christian country, as it is called, I am laughed at for undertaking something of a similar nature, though upon a much more confined plan. They have raised a report that I am insane, and my name is become a by word to frighten children with.—But, no matter—If a man were to be laughed out of virtue, I know not what would become of even those which they have dignified by the name of cardinal.
I HAVE had this scheme in agitation for some time, but I would not tell you,

because I knew you would immediately have set your wits to work to put me out of conceit with it; and my temper is so open to conviction, that I dare not defend a good cause against such an antagonist.—I see but one side of a question, at one time, and it is always that which is represented, at the instant, to my imagination.
MY family increases daily. The sick, the lame, and the blind are brought to me from all quarters; and I have the satisfaction to hear the poor people bless me, when I have made a new purchase of them.—Since I have wrote this last paragraph, and while I was at breakfast, I have had three litters of blind puppies, and an old boar-stag that's past service, added to my stock.—The venders have all gone away satisfied, and praying

heaven to prosper me.—One wicked, young dog, indeed, who has brought me a broken-legged cat, tittered while I was paying him, and burst into a laugh, as soon as his foot was over the threshold; but how can I expect a boy to make just reflections, when so few men are capable of them.—I fancy myself sometimes the patriarch Noah, surrounded with my beasts in the ark; and the whim pleases me so much, that I have employed the barber of the village to weave me a white beard, that shall reach down to the waistband of my breeches, and give me the true antediluvian lock.—I don't intend to use this in concert, it shall be a solo instrument, for my own private amusement— or to indulge a very particular friend.
I AM still in some pain about your player.—You had fired my fancy, and I began to have hopes there was really

some foundation for your praise.—If you have had no occasion to alter your opinion write directly—send me a letter express—I would rather hear this news than that of ten battles, all fought by another Bajazet, or any other grand Turk. Vale,
H. HANDFORD.

LETTER XL. Mr. STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. SELDON.
Dear SIR,
MY Maria is much better, but Tom Maitland has been very ill, ever since the fire: it is not thought he will live. This dreadful accident, occasioned by his giddiness, is a great oppression to his spirits, and he discovers much contrition for his past follies. As he believes his end to be approaching, he laments, in the most pathetic manner, the waste he has made of the best part of his time. I sincerely wish he may recover, and make my girl happy. This stroke has opened his eyes. The calmness with which he expects the close of life, the strong flow of good sense that appears in his conversation, and

the sensibility he expresses for his afflicted father, convince me that I was mistaken in attributing his faults to a depravity of mind, instead of a levity of disposition.
MR. MAITLAND, who was perfectly superior to the loss of his fortune, is unable to withstand this second calamity. Yesterday morning we were sitting together by Tom's bed-side: his languid eyes were fixed on his father, whose countenance expressed the struggle between his grief and the firmness of his mind. His son grasped his hand, and looked at him with a tenderness that seemed to entreat him not to grieve, but which, naturally produced the contrary effect.
I understand you, Tom, said he, I will compose myself—I will endeavour to bear my afflictions, and submit to the decrees of heaven with

fortitude—but I must feel that I am a father.
So saying he rose, and went out, being no longer able to conceal his emotions. The dying youth followed him with his eyes, and then turning to me, with a deep sigh,
Oh Mr. Stamford,
said he,
'tis I that have done this—I have oppressed my father's age with want and sorrow— Oh that my death would restore his peace! with what pleasure should I welcome the gloomy power! Your friendship may do much — go, dear Sir, follow him, and prevent his wasting the hours in useless grief. 'Tis a satisfaction to me when I think, your friendship will assist him to bear his afflictions.

I LEFT him, and went in search of Mr. Maitland, whom I found, sitting, with his head reclined, in a musing posture.

His mind was so intent on his misfortunes that he did not, at first, perceive my approach.
"AT length," said he, looking up,
I have conquered, and can submit to join in the general order of the system, without reluctance. Whatever the all-wise Regent of the universe permits to be is best. His attributes, which we discover by a process of reason, as nearly approaching to demonstration as our faculties will admit, immensity of power and goodness, cannot admit of the existence of real evil. It is from the errors of beings, necessarily, imperfect, that the appearance of partial evil arises; and that partial evil is, doubtless, constituted as the means of acquiring a greater, and, otherwise, not attainable, good. The retrospect on past life adds experiment

to proof; and, in some future age, I shall rejoice at what is now considered as the greatest calamity. Then, my son, we shall look back with pleasure on our present separation. But, ah my child
said he, his voice softening as he spoke,
'Tis not with tranquillity, I can bear thy loss. O my friend, my Stamford, how vain is the reliance we place on the fortitude of our minds! Can it be philosophy to bear the torture of the soul with indifference? Are the tender affections faults which a wise man ought to endeavour to overcome? Are they not, rather, the distinguishing characters of humanity, which to erase is to become worse than inanimate? I am convinced they are. The arguments of the understanding are too weak to check the flow of the heart. I feel their insufficiency. O, my boy, how

are my hopes blasted! I must grieve. Never, again, shall I delight in the sportive vivacity of my dear child. O, thou great power,
continued he, raising his hands, in an agony of passion,
I am become a blank in the universe. Misery is my lot. Remove me from this hated scene. Let me accompany my son, or restore him to me.

AFTER a little pause, growing more calm, "I thank you, my dear friend," said ne, addressing himself to me,
you sympathise with me. I am perplexed, I am bewildered in doubts. The object of my cares, of my affections, is snatched from me, and I want fortitude to sustain the loss. The scheme of providence, which I vainly thought to have comprehended, is fled, and darkness hangs over the prospect. Why are we taught to regard delicacy of sentiment and sensibility

of mind, as marks heaven's of benevolence to man? Are they not bestowed to render us more completely wretched?—to make us capable of pain, infinitely more intense than that which arises from external causes— that we may envy the happier brute? Yet, such is my state. At once deprived of my fortune, my son, and the chearing view of a benevolent first Power, I find myself seated in the midst of a dreadful void. Every support, on which my soul reposed, is removed, far from me; and I wish for annihilation to ease me from the burden of existence.

I WAS glad to observe that the activity of his mind had not forsaken him, at this crisis, and that he was able to reason so abstractedly on the subject. I assumed the bright side of the question,

and attempted to prove him wrong in relinquishing the idea of universal order. The conversation having restored his tranquillity, in a great degree, we went to see Tom. The physicians had prognosticated his death on this day; instead of which, to our great joy, he was just awakened from a found sleep, as we entered. The effect was so considerable that we have some hopes of his recovery, though the danger is far from being entirely removed.
I CANNOT think of leaving my friend, so long as the probability of his losing his son remains; but shall come to town as soon as he is thought out of danger, which, I hope, will be in a day or two.
I am, with perfect esteem, Your friend and humble servant, J. STAMFORD.

LETTER XLI. Mr. WESTWOOD to H. HANDFORD, Esq
Dear SIR,
I SHALL attempt no apology for the silence you charge me with—It is sufficient excuse, to you, to say, I was lazy, or stupid, or both, which, you know, are no uncommon accidents in life.
YOUR player, that I interested you so much about, is gone.—Don't be alarmed—He has been guilty of no meanness, committed no outrage—His character is sacred to virtue—His exit has been with greater eclat than his entrance— But I have lost him—I never conceived a greater partiality for any man, I will

not even except yourself.—What a world would this be were men all like him and you!—Don't be angry—You must must permit me to speak the truth.
I TOLD you the women were all in love with him; I'll now tell you the consequence; the men were all jealous of him.—One of them, a mean rascal, who yet bears the title of gentleman, attempted, I believe, to assassinate him. —Be that as it will, he hired two ruffians to assist him in taking that revenge, which he had not the courage to attempt by himself.—With this innocent view did these three worthies waylay him; and God knows what would have been the consequence, had they had any common man to deal with; for the assistants were fellows remarkable for their prowess.—But our hero fairly vanquished them all.—I happened

to come up just as he was finishing his conquest.—I beheld him deal some half dozen blows.—Never, before, did I see such firmness and agility, nor so much lenity, after the victory, to such vile rascals.—
IT was this affair that occasioned his departure, I suppose.—He supped with us on Sunday evening, when, in spite of his endeavours to the contrary, he appeared exceedingly dejected.—He told us, it was probable, he should never have that pleasure again; and was so much affected, while he said this, that the tears gushed into his eyes, and he was obliged to turn his head away.— I perceived the shame and confusion that these emotions excited in him, and delicacy obliged me to desist from enquiring into the cause of his grief.— He seemed rather to wave any hints

that were thrown out to him, to tell where he was going, and I was loath to urge him.—My mother, who almost doted on his company, could hardly be restrained from asking him questions, which, I perceived, would have embarrassed him.—But he promised, at parting, that if ever he were happy once more, which he believed impossible, he should take great pleasure in communicating it to us.
SINCE he has been gone, we have heard several particulars, which only serve to increase our admiration.—Two or three poor families have declared that he has given them assistance; and among the rest, the wife of one of the assassins confessed he gave her a guinea, upon hearing she was distressed for her rent.—The rascal, her husband, has fled the country.

I HAVE never found you offended, when I have happened to differ in opinion with you; I shall, therefore, venture to dissent from your picture of that seminary where I had the good fortune first to become acquainted with you.—That the outline is just, I will readily grant, but the shadings are too deep. This is only momentary with you, and while you recollect particular instances.—Neither have we any cause to wonder that learned men are not always rational men.—There is a degree of genius requisite to this, which falls to the share of a few only.—The memory may be capable of bearing a greater burden than the imagination, and this produces plodders.—The reverse of the proposition is equally true, and from hence springs enthusiasm.—I beg pardon—I lift the ferula, when I ought to kiss the rod.—I assume the tone of a

a teacher, when I ought to look up at the master.
THE impracticability of your hospital, at least, the impositions you are liable to sustain, are so evident, that I shall not attempt to reason with you concerning, it. Time will prove the best logician in this case. The motive does honour to your heart; and, if I did not see the inconveniences attending your scheme, should wish to assist you in the pursuit.
I SHALL be at Oxford next term, and, you may be certain, shall not fail to pay you a visit. By that time your ménagerîe will either be demolished, or considerably augmented. I shall rejoice in the length of your beard; the hint of which, I presume, you borrowed from some of your family appertaining

to the ancient fraternity of goats. I think I see your puppies gnawing your shoes, and your kittens wantoning round you, while the senior cats enjoy the privilege of reposing in the venerable shade of your beard. Though, perhaps, that patriarchal implement may be the destined asylum for animals of another species, à la mode de Bombay. The golden age will, certainly, be renewed in your seminary, provided you can but keep the peace among your subjects. I suppose you have, several times, had your pockets filled with mice, who had fled thither to escape the army of cats you have purchased. The worn-out horse will, I hope, be in the first rank of your favourites. You may condescend to select a rozinante for your own use; and, even if it should have but three legs, I would advise you not to fear. Euclid, for your encouragement,

has wrote a theorem to prove that, three-legged stools stand firmest; and, if so, why not horses, which are much nobler animals? I could say a great deal more concerning your project, but do not wish to insult your judgment, by instances so obvious.
I am, Your respectful friend, and very humble servant, G. WESTWOOD.

LETTER XLII. H. HANDFORD, Esq to Mr. WESTWOOD.
Friend GEORGE,
I REJOICE that your player has not deceived you, but I am sorry that it is out of my power to become acquainted with him.—Had he continued at Kendal, I would have posted away directly.— I am vexed — Why should the fellow run away from me in this manner?—And yet, perhaps, it is as well as it is.—Want of faith and gratitude are so recent in my memory—There—there, now—You see what a damned, vile dog I am—Condemning a man, whom I have never known any ill of, but heard a great deal of good, because I have met with rascals in my

life.—I am always finding myself but at these tricks.—
I WISH I had seen him.—Perhaps he was poor, and too proud to own it — And he relieved some families in distress?—I wish I had known him.—I dare say they did not come to tell their wants to him.—No, no — How should they suppose a poor player had any thing to spare.—I have known those rascals, myself, those players, I mean, for all they have been guilty of some little, paltry tricks, do some very good actions.—And, I have been told that, they are always willing to assist any of their fraternity, who are travelling, or out of employ, although they are as poor as a country curate's horse themselves. —I love the dogs for that.—I dare say this fellow, that you tell me of, had a thousand good qualities that you had

not time to discover.—And so he had genius too you say?—Damn him, what did he run away in such a hurry for?— I would have come over to have seen him, instantly.—I would ride a thousand miles to be acquainted with the villain.—Its cursed hard, that I should be in continual pursuit of these rascals, who are an honour to us, and that they should, always, steal away from me in such a manner.—But that is the case with them; they are all ashamed of doing good, and, like young sinners, blush at what they love.—They are afraid of being detected, and laughed at.—Well they may—Its a damned vile world, that's the truth on't.—
I AM pestered, plagued, teized, tormented to death.—I believe all the cats in christendom are assembled in Oxfordshire. I am obliged to hire a clerk

to pay the people, and the village, where I live, is become a constant fair.—A fellow has set up the sign of the three Blind Kittens, and has the impudence to tell my neighbours, if my whims and my money will only hold out for one twelvemonth, he shan't care a fig for the king.—I thought to prevent this inundation, by buying up all the old cats, and secluding them in convents and monasteries of my own; but the value of the breeders is increased, to such a degree that, I do not believe my whole fortune is capable of the purchase.—Besides, I am made an ass of.— A rascal, who is a known sharper, in these parts, hearing of the aversion I had to cruelty, bought an old, one-eyed horse, that was going to the dogs, for five shillings. Then, taking a hammer in his hand, watched an opportunity of finding me alone, and addressed me

in the following manner.—
Look you, master, I know that you don't love to see any dumb creter abused, and so, if you don't give me ten pounds, directly, why I shall scoop out this old rip's odd eye, with the sharp end of this here hammer, now, before your face.
—Aye, and the damned villain would have done it, too, if I had not, instantly, complied; but, what was worse, the abominable scoundrel had the audacity to tell me, when I wanted him to deliver the horse, first, for fear he should extort a farther sum from me, that he had more honour than to break his word.

I PERCEIVE it is in vain for me to, attempt the carrying on this scheme much longer.—My poor invalids must be abandoned.—I suppose, when they are turned upon this most merciful world

again, the boys will make hunting-matches with the cats, tie tin-cans, and old kettles to their tails, and clothe their feet in walnut-shells; my poor puppies will be fleaed for their skins, and my old cattle driven to the next kennel of hounds.—No, no, they shan't be so abused neither.—It would have been better, for many of them, had I never interposed in their behalf, than suffer them to be thus tormented.—The cruel rascals would take a delight in inventing punishments, if it were only to torture me.—
A WHELP of a boy, yesterday, had caught a young urchin, and, perceiving me, threw it in water to make it extend its legs; then, with the rough side of a knotty stick, sawed upon its ham, till the creature cried like a child; and when I ordered him to desist, told me he would

not, till I had given him six-pence.— Another over-wise fellow, a farmer of the parish, swears he will lay an indictment, next quarter-sessions, against me, for an encourager and breeder of varmint; and a pettifogging son of a whore's rascal, of an attorney told me, to my face, that if he could find out my heir, he would persuade him to sue for his inheritance, under the statute of lunacy.
THERE is something worse than all this. The avaricious rascals, when they can find nothing that they think will excite my pity, disable the first animal which is not dignified with the title of Christian; and then bring it to me as an object worthy of my commiseration; so that, in fact, instead of protecting, I destroy. The women have entertained a notion that I hate two-legged animals; and one of them called after me, the

other day, to tell me I was an old rogue, and that I had better give my money to the poor, and maintain my own bastards, than keep a parcel of dogs and cats that eat up the village.—Adieu— I have wearied you—and I am certain I have wearied myself.
H. HANDFORD.

LETTER XLIII. H. HANDFORD, Esq to Mr. WESTWOOD.
Friend GEORGE,
I HAVE rare news for you—I am impatient till I have related it, but am resolved to begin my story, and tell it methodically.
YOU are not unacquainted with my passion for traversing the fields, and lying about, in summer-time, upon green banks, under trees, or by the side of rivers.—These are my poetical moods, and I delight in indulging them. About a fortnight ago, in the midst of one of them, I was disturbed by the rustling of the leaves, and the sudden appearance of a youth, that leaped, with the utmost ease and agility, over a devilish

high hedge, and whisked by me, without noticing me, with the fleetness of a stag that has just broke cover.—I was amazed at the symmetry of the fellow's person, as well as his swiftness; and, my imagination having been warmed by Monsieur Homer's description of the race, in which Clytonius was victor, my fancy ran as fast as his legs.—The spirit of curiosity was raised, and I made twenty fruitless enquiries concerning this apparition.
A DAY or two after it appeared again, but in a quite different manner.—The mercurial spirit was evaporated, instead of l'Allegro, he was quite il Penseroso.— His arms were folded, his eyes fixed, and his cheeks bedewed with tears.—I would give you a description of his person, but that it is needless.—I only say, I never saw one that pleased me so much before.

I can't tell what ailed me, but his slow and steady walk, his sighs, which were deep and frequent; the melancholy to apparent in his visage, and the large tears that dropped, unobserved as it were, down his face, gave me sensations of the most forcible kind.—I wanted to discourse with him, in hopes I might have it in my power to alleviate his grief; and, for that purpose, walked by the side of him for the whole length of a meadow, without his taking the least notice of me.—Just before he came to the gate, he stopped, suddenly, for a moment, lifted up his eyes to heaven, uttered a dismal groan, and, after calling out aloud, Oh love! love! started from where he stood, gave a bound over the gate, and vanished again like lightning.
I WISH I could tell you, George, how I behaved.—For some time I remained

stupefied, entranced, riveted to the spot. —As soon as I could get loose, I whistled, I danced, I cursed, I prayed, and, at last, fairly cried for vexation.— I never saw so fine a fellow.—His grief, too, was so noble, so manly—It was fixed, rooted—
WELL, Sir, in this condition was I obliged to return home, chagrined enough, you may be sure, and heard nothing of him for several days.—About a week afterwards, as I was going my rounds, I approached a place where a parcel of young villains were bathing. —Before I was got up to them, the whole pack set up a yelping to tell me, one of the puppies, their playfellows, was drowning. I hobbled up to the rascals, as fast as I could, and, though I can swim no more than the leaden goose in my Lord Visto's garden, soused in without

dread of danger, or saying one short prayer.—The lying dogs, to be sure, had told me that they did not believe it was out of my depth.—I soon found to the contrary, though, and discovered, moreover, like Falstaff, that I had an admirable alacrity at sinking.—Yes, yes, Sir—I was at the bottom in a twinkling, and there I might have lain, in sure and certain hope of being dragged out by a boat hook, when I had taken in sufficient water for the voyage, had not this—aye, this Alwyn—the individual, identical, player—your Alwyn, my Alwyn— The melancholy youth, the runner— but you shall hear more anon.—He leapt in—Sir, he stood as little upon ceremony as I had done.—But then he is a different fellow—a very different fellow.—A man and a boy drowned, said he, God forbid!— Sir, he brought us

up, he landed us with a finger and a thumb!—
WHAT do you suppose I said, when, after some half hour's rubbing and tumbling, for I was old, and presently gone—What, I say, do you think I said when I first opened my eyes, and saw this Alwyn, with a look like an angel over a condemned soul, standing by me, and heard him ask, in the most expressive and softest tone possible, how I did? —I'll tell you what I said Sir—I said nothing.—But I would be content to be drowned every day of my life, to feel what I felt.—
HOW the devil shall I contrive to tell you the rest of this story, to make you caper, and sing, and wipe your eyes, and rub your shins as a Christian ought

to do.—Take notice, however, that though I tell you, now, it was your Alwyn, the player, the fellow that I would have rid so far to see, I knew nothing of that, then.—No, no—I only looked upon him, at that instant, as a kind of heavenly being, a sort of angel of benevolence, and my deliverer—I did not half know him.—Well, Sir, he told me that his mother lived hard by, and begged of me to suffer myself to be put to bed, in her house, and take a little cordial, which she would give me.—And I told him, that though I did not believe I should go to bed, I would go, with his help, that is, and take some of his mother's cordial, with all my heart.—
DEAR George, forgive my weakness —I can scarcely proceed—I can trifle no longer.—Is it any wonder that I am

affected, when I tell you that, the moment I put my foot over the threshold, I beheld, in Mrs. Alwyn, the person of a dear, and long-lost sister.
MY joy and surprise at finding the nearest, and, my parents excepted, the dearest relation I ever knew; a sister, whom, in my youth, I had loved with an unbounded affection; to see her the happy mother of such a son; one, too, who, but the moment before, had preserved my life; the effect this had upon me is past my power to describe.—
YES, my dear friend, heaven has sent me a sister and a nephew, to whom riches will be estimable, because they will contribute to their happiness. Not

from the value they put upon wealth, they, both, have minds superior to such influence, but from other circumstances. The cause of my poor Alwyn's melancholy, is love—The youth, from too great a consciousness of inferiority, in point of wealth, has not ventured to declare his passion, except to the brother of the lady.—Maria is the daughter of his father's friend, Mr. Stamford, a capital merchant.—He tells me he is in disgrace with the family, and, by what I can collect, has had some foul play.— Not from them—Their character is greatly beyond it; but my boy's health, the exercise of his reason, depends upon this affair being cleared up, and there is no time so be lost.
OH, George, what pleasure do I experience when I pronounce the words my boy.—I, who, yesterday, had no friend,

no relation, whom I could suppose a part of myself, to find an Alwyn, and to find him mine, the idea is too luxurious!—His account of Maria, too, is so romantic, and so pleasing, that I burn with impatience to see them united. —God forbid that any cross accident should intervene and prevent their union—I hope not.—And yet the terrors of the youth are communicated, in part, to me.—But I will hope the best.
YOU long to know how I and my sister came to suppose each other dead— I will tell you.—
BY my approbation and advice, she married a young officer, a most amiable man, and one of my intimate friends. Alwyn, her husband, and myself, were both young, and both adventurers. He laid out the greatest

part of his own, and my sister's fortune, the aggregate of which was no porter's burden, in purchasing from an ensign to a captain. I crossed the Equinoctial, and, in a few years, without, I flatter myself, deserving the appellation of Nabob, as the word is at present applied, became almost as rich as one. —My sister went abroad with her husband, who was obliged to attend his regiment.—That we might be certain not to lose the knowledge of each other's residence, we determined to correspond by favour of a third person, who was a cousin, and the only relation we had.— Our caution proved our want of prescience, more ways than one.—This cousin was a villain.—He heard I was likely to grow rich, and, instead of forwarding my sister's letters, wrote me an account of her and her husband's death, and of mine to her. I read, in

the public papers, of my poor friend Alwyn's fall in the field of battle, and had, therefore, the less reason to doubt the truth of the whole story.—When we, respectively, arrived in England, he found means to continue the deception, and was snatched off suddenly, in the midst of his wicked career, by an apoplectic fit.—She has lived in this retreat for some years. I have only bought the estate, at which I now live, lately, and have not resided here till within this month. 'Tis true, my name is become pretty familiar among the villages hereabout, from circumstances which I have before related; but she lives so retired, and has been under so much concern for her poor Alwyn, that her not having heard of me is no miracle.

MY boy's case will admit of no delay; we must, therefore, be up in London in a few days. This, I am afraid, will deprive us of the pleasure of seeing you, when you come next into Oxfordshire. I need not tell you how heartily you are beloved by your Kendal comedian, your poor player. He will tell it you himself by this same post.—You know the aversion I bear to large professions, but, believe me when I say, no man esteems you— well, well—loves you better than
H. HANDFORD.
MY sister will thank you for herself. —She adores you for the part you took in the cause of her hero, her young Romeo, her dear Harry.

LETTER XLIV. Mr. STAMFORD, Sen. to Mr. MAITLAND, Senior.
My dear Friend,
Mark-Lane.
WE arrived here safe, and hope for the pleasure of your company, as soon as your son is in a condition to bear the journey. Our mutual friend, Seldon, desires his respects, and expresses a great inclination to serve you; but I told him, I had a prior claim. 'Tis the highest satisfaction to me, that I have it in my power: not for the selfish view of counterbalancing the obligation I owe you, but, sincerely, out of regard for those virtues that first attached me to you. I assure you, my dear Maitland, I shall think it pride, and not philosophy, if you continue to refuse my offers.

'Tis true, a philosopher can subsist on a little. Exclude artificial wants, and a small income will be sufficient. But there are two prerogatives the rich enjoy, which I am confident you would miss exceedingly. The power of doing good, and the company of people of enlarged understandings. The first you will readily allow to be concomitant with riches; and, though genius and intelligence are not confined to station, it is no wonder that we find they flourish, most, in the soil best adapted to their improvement. Want of leisure, and want of instruction, prevent many a bright mind from unfolding its powers.
BUT, arguments apart, I beg you will recollect, with how little ceremony I requested your assistance, on a former occasion, when my future welfare entirely depended on it. I did your

friendship justice. I believed you sincere. I even expected you would rejoice in the opportunity of serving me. Nor was I deceived. I did you a favour in permitting you to exert yourself for my advantage; and I entreat, nay, I insist, that you will let me enjoy the same satisfaction in my turn. I shall think you doubt my friendship, if you refuse me the privilege of rebuilding Maitland-hall; and of adding my little estate to your farm in Essex, to which it is contiguous. I should be ashamed to urge, as an argument, that I can spare it, because that would be the least consideration in the affair: but, however, it is so, and, if that will be any inducement to your acceptance, I beg you will not demur on that account.
WHILE I am writing, a letter is arrived from a Mr. Hilkirk, who is the

son of our friend Seldon. He has adopted a strange mode of education for him, which, in my opinion, is rather dangerous. To enhance the value and enjoyment of prosperity, and to give, at the same time, fortitude of mind, and a knowledge of the world, he turned him adrift, some years ago, and the event has answered his expectations; thanks to the natural disposition of the youth, more than to the prudence of the scheme itself.
BUT more of this when we meet. At present I am to acquaint you, the purport of his letter is, that, in consequence of an advertisement, inserted in the papers, he has apprehended your late servant, Stokes, at Taunton-Dean, in Somersetshire, who offered an inland bill of exchange, to discount, to a friend of his. He has

sent him under a guard; and we expect him in on Saturday. As for Hilkirk himself, he says, he has reasons to avoid coming to town; which, I suppose, are the mortifications he has experienced here; but his father writes, by this post, to command his attendance.
I AM in hopes that we shall obtain intelligence, which will tend to recover your loss, in a great measure; and shall write again on the subject, if your arrival in town should not render it unnecessary. I am, dear Sir,
Your sincere friend and humble servant, J. STAMFORD.

LETTER XLV. Mr. WESTWOOD to H. HANDFORD, Esq
Dear SIR,
IT is impossible to describe the effect your last letter had in our family. I never beheld my mother so affected before. You cannot imagine how much Mr. Alwyn is beloved by us all. For my part, I was almost ashamed of my weakness, and was obliged to retire to give a decent vent to my passions.—
MY father and mother, as well as your humble servant, have all wrote to congratulate Mr. Alwyn.—My father is particularly glad, to find himself so good

a prophet.—When Mr. Alwyn left Kendal, he gave it as his opinion, that my young friend was a gentleman of a most amiable character, in disguise; and that, from the civilities which had passed between our family and him, we should hear of him again; to which he added, that, he suspected, he was crossed in love. —We have done nothing but talk of you. We have imagined fifty ways in which the group was disposed, at the meeting of you and your sister.—My mother is certain you both fainted away, and wishes she had been present, to administer sal volatile. My father, who has been made acquainted with your character, gives it as his opinion, that poor Mrs. Alwyn most assuredly gave a loud shriek, and instantly fell into hysterics, while you whistled and capered; and that Mr. Alwyn assumed exactly, the same attitude that he saw Him in at

the appearance of the Ghost, when he played Hamlet.—In short, you hardly felt your own situation, more forcibly, than we have done after you.—But we are all eager to see you, and are exceedingly anxious concerning Mr. Alwyn's love-affair.—We have formed very romantic ideas of the young lady.—If she equals her lover, they will be the most extraordinary pair in the universe.—I am called away—I'll come back and finish my letter before the post goes out.
I AM returned, in amazement at the villainy of man, and the concern Mr. Alwyn has in the discovery I have just made! A person of the name of Stentor, belonging to the players, sent for me in a violent hurry. The breath has just departed his body. It was to do Mr. Alwyn justice, in his last moments. A violent fever dried up the small remainder

of his blood so fast, that I did but just arrive in time to receive a paper, which he was exceedingly desirous of delivering to me, with his own hands, before he died.—Read the contents, and learn how much you are all interested in them.

To GEORGE WESTWOOD, Esq
SIR,
IF you are acquainted with the place of Mr. Alwyn's retreat, I conjure you to inform him or the following particulars.
MR. Stamford and Mr. Alwyn are abused, and I am the wicked instrument. —I have forged a letter, imitating Mr. Alwyn's writing, at the instigation of Mrs. Vincent, to serve an amorous purpose for her, and a mercenary, envious one for myself.—I pilfered his pocketbook to procure intelligence.—God forgive me.—I have acted basely, vilely, towards a good, young man, and my conscience torments me.—Mrs. Vincent wrote the anonymous letter to Mr.

Stamford.—She is a bad woman.—But she had more excuse.—She was in love. —God have mercy upon my poor soul. I hope Mr. Alwyn will forgive me.—I never knew so good a young man.— I was privy to a hundred of his generous, benevolent actions, yet was a rascal to him.—I am justly punished, in being obliged to own, in my dying moments, God be merciful to me, that I am a rascal.— Perhaps I had been a better man, if I had had better fortune.—God only knows, I hope he will have pity on my poor soul.—I am terrified.—It is a sad thing to be punished everlastingly!—Christ forgive me!—Jesus have mercy upon me!—Oh beg of Mr. Alwyn to forgive me!—
T. STENTOR.
I RECEIVED the above from him, in his last agonies. His countenance was

alternately most pitiably expressive of hope and horror.—I have not time to make comments.—The everlasting peace of my friends depends, perhaps, upon a single moment; I, therefore, send it express, and with orders to follow you to London, if you are set our, which is most probable.
Heaven prosper you— G. WESTWOOD.

LETTER XLVI. Mr. SELDON to Mr. HILKIRK.
My dear Son,
I COULD no longer forbear to acquaint you with the reasons that have made us so long strangers to each other. Your own conduct was, indeed, one; but your behaviour, in many instances, since, none of which are unknown to me, has been so becoming and manly, that I rejoice in the events that gave occasion for the exercising your fortitude and virtue. I parted with you with the less regret, as I foresaw the consequence; yet my care and affection has not ceased to follow your steps. Mr. Turnbull has, at intervals, attended your progress; and was witness

to the diligence and skill you exerted, in apprehending the villain who had robbed Mr. Maitland. By his intelligence, I find it time to place you in a situation that better becomes you, than your present one. You will have the satisfaction of enjoying, as a consequence of your merit, that affluence, which, had you known sooner, might have proved the means of rendering you idle, debauched, and useless to society. I mean no reproach, when I speak this. It has happened to men of less lively passions than yourself. But, as it is at present, you are possessed of my best opinion. I long to see you, to explain every thing; therefore do not fail to come, immediately, to town. I write, this post, to Mr. Turnbull, who will call upon you, and supply you with money, and every thing you may be in need of.

YOUR Julia, whose coldness to you was the consequence of my positive commands, is, likewise, impatient to see you. If she is still dear to you, you will hasten hither; and I shall be happy to see you united to her, by the most sacred ties.
DO not suffer this unexpected intelligence to deprive you of that fortitude you have acquired. Bear the same, firm mind you have, hitherto, proved yourself master of; and believe me to be, notwithstanding the necessary severity of my conduct,
Your most tender and affectionate, father, R. SELDON.

LETTER XLVII. H. HANDFORD, Esq to Mr. WESTWOOD.
HERE we are George!—Here we are!—My dear sister, and I, and my dear Alwyn, and—but no matter for that—I hope to be the happiest rascal alive—sometime within this fortnight, that is—
WE arrived in London, Sir, at five in the evening, and alighted at—pooh —what the plague signifies where we alighted.—Our business was in Harley-street, where Mr. Stamford has a house— You can't imagine how I was teized.— Sir, I could not get that good, graceless dog, Alwyn, along.—I was obliged to collar the fellow in the street, when he found where I was going, and should

not have moved him then, had I not called in the assistance of half a dozen chairmen.—The villain's proud—plaguy proud—and yet I love the dog for it.

MR. Stamford had accused him of ingratitude and guilt though he was not conscious of the charge, yet he was too well acquainted with Mr. Stamford's character not to be assured that he proceeded upon conviction.


Why then; my dear Alwyn, says I, it is your duty, sirrah, to go and vindicate your innocence.


Innocence, replied my delicate gentleman, may be too assuming, dear uncle.—To avoid Mr. Stamford, while depressed with poverty, as well as grief, and to run precipitately

into his presence, because I have found a protecting uncle—

SIR, he was going on, with his fine reasons, and I was obliged to stop his mouth▪—I found I should be convinced; and, as I told him, I thought it damned ill-natured of him, to convince a man in spite of his teeth, when he would rather remain in ignorance.—I had decoyed the dear rogue to that end of the town, on pretence of seeing the new buildings. — The dog suspected me, though, and gave me several hints, which I could not find in my heart to understand.—I should have told you, though, for I suppose you don't know it, that the fellow has saved more lives than mine—He rescued his mistress from the flames.—

WELL, Sir, while we were wrangling, who should come by but the footman of young Stamford, a servant, that is lately come to the family, and knew nothing more of Alwyn than that, he had seen him, on the night of the fire, preserve his young lady.—This fellow, this servant, no sooner beheld my boy, than, after staring for a moment, with joy and astonishment, he sprang towards him, seized his hand, and with a convulsive kind of transport, pronounced —God bless you!—God almighty bless your honour!—I am glad I have found you —You are the gentleman that saved my dear lady—I am sure on't—I shall never forget you.—Don't go —Pray don't go, Sir, till I have called my old master, and my young master, and my my lady—They'll never forgive me if I let you go.—

THE fellow did not wait for an answer, but with three strides reached the door, gave a thundering clatter upon the knocker, bounced into the drawing-room, seized young Stamford's hand, and, pulling him along, kept exclaiming, "Here he is, Sir, here he is—I have found him, I have found him, I have found him!"—

WHO?—What's the matter? who have you found?


THE stranger—The angel that saved my young lady, that carried her through the flaming fire.
—

"GRACIOUS God! exclaimed young Stamford,—was it you, Mr. Alwyn, that saved the life of my sister!—Is it possible—It is, it is—I hope it is—I believe it is, I am sure it is."—

WE got them into the house, and then it was, that the pathos of the scene was exhibited.—Maria happened to be in her own chamber: she heard the voice of Alwyn, she flew, she found her hope confirmed, she sunk into the arms of her lover.—
"HOW have we been deceived," said Mr. Stamford, senior!—
Did you save my child, Alwyn?—Was it you, my boy?
continued the old gentleman, while the tears trickled down his face.
Are you the stranger?—It is not possible you could write such letters.

"WHAT letters," said Alwyn.—

NAY, think no more of them, answered he—We will forget them— They were not your's—They could not be your's.—


I DON'T know what you mean, upon my honour, replied the youth —I never wrote any letters to you that
—


NO, no, they were not to me—But let us forget them—If I did not know your hand—And yet—It is impossible! —Why should you risk your life, for one whom you despised?—I have been deceived.—They could not be your's—Your are too amiable—It is to you that I am indebted for my life, for every comfort. But for you Maria had perished

WHILE they were in the midst of this ambiguous discourse, which was entirely incomprehensible to Alwyn, your letter, most fortunately, arrived.—My sister, when she found it came express, sent my man with it immediately.—I opened,

and read aloud, the last dying speech and confession of the expert Mr. Stentor.—Shall I describe the effect, or shall I leave you to imagine it?—You can't. —Nor can I describe it.—Language is unequal to the task.—I can add nothing, but that we are happy, and, I hope, you are so.
H. HANDFORD.

LETTER XLVIII. Mr. STAMFORD to Mr. MAITLAND.
My dear Friend,
I RECEIVED your favour, by which I have the pleasure to observe that your son's health is much improved. The natural consequence is that I expect your company in a few days. Perhaps this letter may be too late to find you in Warwickshire, but the news I have to communicate is too important to suffer any delay in sending it to you. In short, your strong box is found, and is, now, in my custody. You will receive, enclosed, an inventory of its contents, which, I hope, on comparison with your accounts, will not appear, considerably,

deficient. The manner of its recovery was as follows.
I INFORMED you, in my last, that Mr. Hilkirk, or, more properly, Mr. Seldon, junior, had apprehended your late servant, Stokes. He arrived here yesterday, under the conduct of a Mr. Turnbull; Mr. Hilkirk being prevented from coming up on account of his situation as manager of the company of players, which he cannot quit on the instant, without doing irreparable damage to the concern.
BY Stokes's direction, a party of Sir John Fielding's men were dispatched to a house in Duke's-Place, where, after a strict search, your box was found. It appears, by his confession, that he was connected with a gang of those villains who use their utmost endeavours to gain

intelligence, by the means of servants, of the property in any house they are desirous of pillaging. He was but too capable of affording them that information, and, as the number of your people prevented their attempting to break into Maitland-hall, they contrived to set it on fire. We all know the success of their attempt, and, it is to be hoped, the reward will follow; such methods being, now, set on foot, as promise to bring the offenders within the reach of justice.
THE whole story being long, I shall defer it till your arrival, and, in the interim, have another piece of business to communicate, which gives me some pain, though, I am assured, you know me too well to suppose me actuated by any motives but those of the strictest integrity and regard for you.

I DARE say you are surprised at this preamble, and, I am convinced, it is unnecessary; therefore, without more words, you are to know, that it is impossible for our children to be united, as we, once, flattered ourselves. I have discovered that my Maria's affections were fixed before she saw your son, and am sincerely concerned that I was not sooner apprised of it. There is reason to think your son is not violently bent on the match; at least I hope so. I make no apologies for my frankness and sincerity. Your candour will not require them, when you are acquainted with the affair. On the contrary, I rely on having the pleasure of your company, and that of your son, at my daughter's marriage.
IT is now four years since I received into my counting-house a young gentleman, of the name of Alwyn, the son of

that Alwyn whom you have so often heard me mention with affection and regret. You may, perhaps, remember seeing him when you were in town, about two years ago. The trifling property his father left, was barely sufficient to maintain his mother in a country retreat; so that I had the pleasure of doing him a singular service, by introducing him to the world. My care was not lost on an ungrateful charge. I had the satisfaction to see him daily improve in every accomplishment, and to behold the virtues of my friend revive in the person of his son. A native sincerity and openness of conduct, added to the most mild and obliging disposition, commanded the esteem of all, who knew him; and, for my part, I regarded him, almost, as my own child. At the beginning of this summer he went into the country, for the benefit of his health, as he then

informed me; but, as I now find, to avoid the presence of my daughter, for whom he entertained a passion, that did not, as he rightly judged, suit his circumstances. Maria was, at the same time, equally prejudiced in his favour, which makes his retreat more generous and disinterested. While he was in the country, I received a letter, charging him with a degree of perfidy and baseness, that I should never have credited, had not the proof appeared of the most incontrovertible, nature. I wrote to him, on the subject, as, I thought, the crime deserved; and his innocence would, probably, never have been vindicated, but for a fortunate concurrence of circumstances, that have cleared up the whole mystery.
THE relation is too long to be inserted in this letter, and must be deferred

till your arrival. He has been vilely traduced. He is incapable of the least meaness. Come to us, my dear Maitland, I know you will love him. 'Twas he that saved my daughter from the flames, and delivered me from a life of sorrow. She is due to his care. He has merited her. I know my dear friend will think so, and rejoice with us. I am quite elated. We are all happy. My Maria is hardly recovered, from the surprise and joy this event has occasioned. Charles is in raptures to find his Alwyn the amiable character he once thought him; and Alwyn is in a state that can better be imagined than expressed.
THE company of yourself and son will be an addition to our happiness, with which we hope you will soon

favour us. For that reason I conclude, without ceremony, by assuring you that I am,
Your most affectionate friend, STAMFORD.

LETTER XLIX. Mr. ALWYN, to Mr. WESTWOOD.
FORGIVE, dear Sir, my having, till now, delayed to write you an account of the completion of my felicity. I have been so long accustomed to consider the present happy turn of my fate as a thing utterly impossible, that I scarce can, yet, believe it real. Thanks to my worthy patron, my kind father; thanks to my honoured uncle, and my dear, dear Maria, I am, at length, convinced. Last Friday was the distinguished day that gave the most amiable, the loveliest of her sex to my arms. I cannot describe the joy which reigns universally among us. I am encircled by friends, by relations, I had almost said, by angels.

FORTUNE seems resolved no longer to let virtue and genius languish in obscurity. This appears by an event which has increased our happiness. My friend, and former companion, Mr. Hilkirk, came to town on Thursday. You may remember, when I was at Kendal, I gave you the history of his adventures, and how much you found yourself interested. You thought the conduct of Mr. Seldon quite aenigmatical: but what will you say when you are informed that he is the only son of that gentleman; that he is beloved with a most parental tenderness; and that his father has contrived, not only to give him a very peculiar kind of education, but that he has, also, brought up Julia with an express intention of her becoming his wife: that their love for each other was, in some degree, the effect of stratagem, on the part of Mr. Seldon,

who had nothing so much at heart as the making them both happy; and that he has assisted misfortune, as it were, in the persecution of his son, still taking care to keep, by various contrivances, an eye over his actions, and not permitting him to be entirely depressed? Mr. Seldon had suffered almost every kind of hardship in his youth; but, by the force of good sense and industry, had, with amazing fortitude, surmounted every difficulty, and is, at present, not only a very worthy, but a very consequential member of society. His son, whose name is William Hilkirk Seldon, was born before the old gentleman had emerged from obscurity; and, his mother dying, was placed at a peasant's in the country, and, afterwards, sent to a grammar-school. But, as the father had already resolved upon a plan of education, he did not let even the people

with whom his son was know to whom he belonged.
YOU have heard the residue of the story, except that Mr. Hilkirk has been the principal agent in discovering the villain who fired Maitland-hall, and purloined the strong box. Mr. Seldon applauds himself, exceedingly, upon the success of his plan. He beholds him with the combined advantages that education and an active life bestow. He affirms that, if, by any mischance, his son should become poor, he will support the change with fortitude: that the common accidents of life will not have power to deprive him of temper: that his knowledge of mankind will, not only make him discern the motives of their actions, but, likewise, give him an ascendancy over them.—Indeed, he adduces a thousand reasons, which, at least, are exceedingly

specious, and, in some instances, true; but, I dare say, you think with me, that, had the experiment been made upon a weaker mind, it would scarcely have succeeded so well.
WHEN my friend Hilkirk, for so I must still call him, arrived in town, his beloved Julia was with us, at Mr. Stamford's, whither he immediately flew. The interview was tender and affecting. The young lady, who had put the utmost restraint upon her inclinations, in obedience to Mr. Seldon, who is her uncle, was incapable of suppressing her emotions. She was fearful, lest her former treatment of Hilkirk, whom she tenderly loved, and which was the effect of her uncle's commands, should be remembered by him, and could not conceal her anxiety. Hilkirk felt the delicacy of her passion, without the

power of alleviating her fears, except by repeated declarations of his love.
THE same day that Mr. Hilkirk arrived, Mr. Maitland, the young gentleman who was designed for Maria, and his father, came to town. Mr. Maitland senior, who is a most amiable man, instead of being chagrined at his son's disappointment, expressed the warmest sense of our felicity; and, I assure you, was remarkably liberal of good-natured reflections, in favour of your humble servant. The vivacity of the young gentleman, too, has been of singular service, in giving the conversation, which has been apt to take too sentimental a turn, a degree of ease and brilliancy that have had a very pleasing effect, and which has been much heightened by the benevolent disposition of the father, as well as the friendship and

attachment he discovers for the Stamford family, of which I am, now, become a part. He assisted, at the marriage ceremony, with a degree of cheerfulness and pleasure that proved the satisfaction he received. Never, before, did I behold so happy a day. My dear Maria, with a profusion of charms, a multitude of virtues, made inevitably mine; my friend receiving the reward of his constancy, the hand of his Julia, at the same time: surrounded by my mother, whose heart was replete with tenderness and joy; by my uncle, whose eyes and actions proved how much he was interested; caressed by my dear friend, the brother of my Maria, and rewarded by her father; it was an excess of transport that can only be imagined.
I MUST forbear. The ideas are too luxuriant, too inexpressible. Pray give

my most sincere respects to your worthy parents, and tell them, when they come to town during the approaching winter, they will find a small society, who hope frequently to enjoy the pleasure of their company; of which honour no one is more desirous than,
SIR,
Your happy friend, and humble servant, HENRY HANDFORD ALWYN.





