The Art of courting, displayed in eight different scenes; the principal of which are taken from actual life, and published for the amusement of the American youth. : [Four lines of quotations] : Published according to act of Congress.

THE ART OF COURTING.

CHAP. I. Of the Institution and nature of Marriage; togeth|er with sundry prudential Maxims, not unworthy to be treasured up in the mind of Youth.

HEBREWS xiii.4.

MARRIAGE IS HONOURABLE IN ALL, AND THE BED UNDEFILED: BUT WHOREMONGERS AND ADULTERERS GOD WILL JUDGE.

THE natural propensity of the human spe|cies to multiply and replenish the earth, has al|ways been too great to go unregulated by some wise and wholsome institution from heaven. Therefore, for the great end of rendering mankind more happy, than they otherwise could have been, the God of love has favoured us with the institution of Marriage.

In discoursing upon the words of the text thus introduced, we will

I. Illustrate the ••••••a, that marriage is hon|ourable in all.

II. Take notice, that the propagation of our species without marriage, must be whoredom and

adultery, which will be condemned by a righteous God, the Judge of all the earth—and then,

III. Draw a few inferences from the whole.

1. Notwithstanding the example set us by the Clergy of the Church of Rome▪ and many others of the deistical tribe among civilians—notwith|standing the sentiments of Lord Bolingbroke, that poligamy is a dictate of nature—notwithstanding the sentiments and examples of these and many others, who have foolishly ridiculed revealed institutions—we say, that our God has told us, that Marriage is honourable in all; this will ap|pear▪ if we consider that marriage is an institution of heaven, and among the children of men, is a civil contract, by which, for life, one man and one woman are joined together as husband and wife. The Saviour of the world has told us— That he who made us at the beginning, made us male and female, and says, for this cause, a man shall leave father and mother, and shall cle••ve to his wife, and they ••wain shall be one flesh. Hence one great end in the formation of man, was that they might multiply and replenish the earth.

The union of one man and one woman as hus|band and wife, therefore, must be honourable in the sight of heaven, consequently, must be hon|ourable in the sight of all those who have any respect to those institutions which God has made for the good of mankind.

2. Marriage must be honourable, because this is the only way of propagating our species, which is truly virtuous. Nothing which is virtuous can be dishonourable in the sight of God, or even in the sight of men whose judgments are regulated by a love of propriety and truth.

3. Marriage must be honourable, because it is profitable. Man and woman are mutually profit|ed by a judicious connection of this kind; in this way their wants may be supplied by each other with more ease than in any other: this is a truth applicable to mankind in general.

4. Marriage must be honourable, because it renders virtuous men and women more happy than they can be without it. In the married state, there are ten thousand joys and innocent pleasures, which men and women in a single state can never experience and be virtuous. The happy, virtuous and m••••••ied pair, viewing them|selves as having one common interest, and feel|ing themsel•••••• animated by one soul, will readily partic•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 each others labours and sorrows, and w•• 〈…〉〈…〉 communicate to each plea•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 joys; and while they trea•• the rougher 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of life, hand in hand, they will beguile the ••••••esome walk with mutual and enchanting smile••—with pleasures, which have never yet found names to express them.

II. We were to take notice, that the propaga|tion of our species, without marriage, must be whoredom and adultery, which will be condemn|ed by a righteous God, the judge of all the earth.

1. Here let it be remembered, that God will censure and condemn every thing which in its nature, is contrary to his holy law, dishonourable to himself, and injurious to his creatures▪ but whoredom and adultery are unlawful, dishon|ourable to God, and injurious to mankind, there|fore, the perpetrators of these shameful crimes

must expect to meet their angry Judge, who will not fail to treat them as the rude violators of his holy laws, and abusers of his creatures.

That this vicious course of conduct is a viola|tion of the law of God, must be evident to every one who reads his Bible; that it is injurious to mankind, will appear from the following consid|erations:

1. It never fails of introducing confusion and distress into families and societies where it take•• place. How many of the fair and unguarded sex, by means of this disgraceful conduct, have been obliged to pine and die, in circumstances the most wretched and ••orlor•••••• How many chil|dren have been exposed to want, and even death in consequence thereof, who 〈…〉〈…〉 might have been well ••ided 〈…〉〈…〉 ••s of infamy do all 〈…〉〈…〉 ••ho su••, 〈…〉〈…〉 them to the grave!

2. Though it be a fact, that several men of fortune and influence have taken care to provide for, and educate their illegitimate and spurious offspring, yet it is more than probable, that ten to one of those unfortunate mortals have suffer|ed beyond all expression by means of the un|happy circumstances which attended their being brought into existence. The history of a Savage, one of the British Poets, would be enough to convince any one of this. And if the great and the opulent neglect their natural children, and suffer them to endure innumerable evils, for want of their assistance, what may we expect to find among the ignorant and indigent parts of society,

who, without controul, give themselves up to the unlawful gratification of their passions?

The many instances of parents being executed for the murder of their illegitimate children, are more than ten thousand arguments against this absurd and vicious mode of propagating our spe|cies in the world.

They who indulge themselves in whoredom or adultery, mutually abuse and defile one another: they disgrace their families, injure society, and dishonour their Maker; and therefore, without repentance, cannot escape the wrath of God.

IMPROVEMENT.

1. Has God, for the happiness of mankind, given as the institution of marriage, and is mar|riage and the bed undefiled honourable in all? Then we ought to feel the obligations we are un|der, to observe this regulation of our passions in life. Have we not reason to fear, there are ma|ny who live under the light of the Gospel, with|out any realising sense of the goodness of God, in this happy institution—that feel themselves un|der no obligation to observe the will of heaven respecting this matter? This is, and ought to be for a lamentation among christian people.

2. From what has been said, we may learn, what an odious figure those make in the sight of God, and in the sight of all the virtuous part of mankind, who indulge themselves in propagating their species by acts of whoredom and adultery: such characters will not bear an examination; the pleasures which they take in these vicious ways are attended with stings of conscience, with disgrace and infamy to themselves and their

wretched posterity in this life, and with punish|ment in the life which is to come, if unrepented of.

3. How thankful ought we to be for the insti|tution of marriage, which is so wonderfully cal|culated to promote the happiness of mankind. By entering into the married state, the natural propensities of male and female towards each other, may be indulged in perfect consistency, with the most elevated and pious feelings of an holy and humble heart: for there is nothing more criminal in that natural inclination which the sex have for the enjoyment of each other, than there is in hunger or thirst, with which the God of na|ture has universally endowed the human species. As we are rational creatures, we are then crimi|nal when we indulge these propensities, or natur|al appetites in an unlawful way and manner, which constitutes whoredom, adultery, gluttony and drunkenness.

4. Is marriage of so much importance as to promote the honour and happiness of mankind? then we may learn the propriety of laying down rules or directions for the choice of suitable com|panions in life, that we may virtuously propagate our species in the world.

Therefore, we shall now lay down several gen|•••••••• rules or prudential Maxims, worthy to be treasured up in the memories of those young people, who would obtain suitable companions in life; after which we shall give several instan••es of Courtships, not unworthy of the imitation of the American Youth.

MAXIM 1.—Never undertake to woo a com|panion previous to your arriving to an age fit for marriage: for not observing this precaution, ma|ny a sprightly youth has been so entangled with premature connections, as have been very griev|ous through life.

MAXIM 2.—No person ought to engage in the delightful business of courting, while his cir|cumstances in life afford no rational prospect of supporting a small family, and of his pretty soon entering into a state of wedlock: for not observ|ing these precautions, many evils have attended the married state, and injured the parties all their days.

MAXIM 3.—Youth who are under age, ought to form no connection for the purpose of keeping company, without the approbation of their par|ents or guardians.

The not observing this maxim, has plunged many a promising youth into great difficulties. However, in all cases in which this is impractica|ble, by means of the want of parents and guar|dians, youth are justified in proceeding without it.

MAXIM 4.—Let none propose marriage, long before any real prospect of entering into that nearest and dearest of all connections. The do|ing of this, has proved a s••are to the undoing of many a lovely youth: the pro••••se of marriage has untied the bands of virtue, and thrown many innocent creatures off their guard, to the•••• entire ruin.

MAXIM 5 —It is not desirable for persons o•• an unsuitable age to m••••••n with ••n other▪

However, a few years more in the age of the male than the age of the female, has been found by experience not inconvenient, owing probably, to women's failing in their natural strength and vigour sooner than men. But when the age of the parties are so disproportionate, as to find the one party in the bloom and vigour of life, and the other undergoing all the infirmities of old age, much of the happiness of the married state is interrupted, if not wholly prevented.

MAXIM 6.—The parties who would wish to match with each other, ought to be as nearly of a level, as to reputation, and family, as possible; otherwise, scenes of contention may arise, which in time may ma••r the delicious sweets of matri|mony, and render the conjugal life burdensome.

MAXIM 7.—It is undesirable, if not unlawful, for persons of piety, to match with open and a|vowed infidels. It is likewise frequently incon|venient for persons of one denomination, to match with persons of another, especially those, who are of such denominations as admit of no communion with each other. The evil effects of such heterogeneous connections, are too many here to be enumerated.

MAXIM 8.—It is preposterous for any to marry only for the sake of money; for riches may take unto themselves wings and fly away: and when this comes to pass, it will be ten to one if all the sweets of matrimony do not follow, and innumerable evils rise in their room. Instances of this kind have not been unfrequent in every part of the world.

MAXIM 9.—Other things being equal, senti|ment intermingled with unfeigned affection, ought to be the great basis on which a connection so honourable and pleasant as that of matrimony should be founded. They who suffer their fancy to take the lead of their judgment in the choice of companions, will be in great danger of being deceived, and finally rendered unhappy in the conjugal state.

MAXIM 10.—In the choice of companions, the parties should as thorougly as possible, investi|gate each others natural tempers. Some are of a temper so rough and boisterous, or so sullen and unforgiving, that a person of a tender heart, calm disposition, and delicate constitution, could no more be happy with them in the bands of matri|mony, than a lamb in the company of a tyger, or a dove in the presence of a hawk. Many a poor wretch having never seen the intended com|panion, but in hours of the greatest pleasantry, has been decoyed into a match as unsuitable as can well be expressed. It is acknowledged, that in many instances, the natural tempers of young people lie much out of sight, and consequently cannot be known without much attention: this ought not to discourage, but engage all to obtain this knowledge.

CHAP. II. Of the Courtship of STREPHON and ELIZA; to|gether with Lady G—'s Amour with Strephon.

WE shall now give you an history of a courtship not unworthy of your imitation. It is that which took place between Strephon and Eliza, American you••h.

Strephon was a young gentleman of about twenty-five years of age; a person of gente••l de|portment; his shapes, lim•••••• and features were well proportioned; comely, though not very handsome; of good parentage, but of a moderate interest; of a most amiable moral character, and devoutly religious.

Eliza was a young lady of about eighteen years of age, whose person was in almost every respect captivating: she was rather above the middle size for height, strait and well proportioned through|out, her features regular and charming, her skin admirably fair, her eyes black and expressive, her hair dark and flowing; she was of a modest, amiable and religious character, and of a family truly excellent.

Strephon and Eliza were of the same re|ligion, and had natural tempers and turns of mind, in many respects, much alike. Strephon

had been much more acquainted with the world than Eliza, for he had seen much company, for a man of his age. Eliza, by means of her tender parents, had been led in a course of life more re|tired, till the age of seventeen; of consequence, her ideas and sentiments respecting matrimony, were such as she had gained from books, and from the wise and chaste conversation of her dear parents, and a few select friends of great modesty and worth.

Kind providence so ordered events, that Stre|phon and Eliza became acquainted with each other, and indeed long before they had kept one anothers company; they were both in love, and both ignorant of their being beloved by each other. Their mutual feelings and conduct may be learned from the following correspondence, together with those historic sketches which are in|terspersed through the whole scene of their Courtship, which was completed in less than two years.

LETTER I. STREPHON TO ELIZA.

Dear Eliza,

I HAVE given Miss B— I.— liberty to call on you for those volumes of Mr. Addisons works which I left with you some time since. If you have read them as much as you have an incli|nation, you can spare them, if not, keep them still.

In the mean time, you shall be welcome to the other volumes of this great and elegant writer, if you will be at the trouble of calling upon my friend, and your neighbour, the Rev. Mr. C—r, in whose care I left them not long since. Per|mit me to tell you, my dear friend, that if you treasure up an hundredth part of the excellent sentiments and beauties of expression contained in those masterly productions, you will have a rich reward for perusing them with the greatest care and diligence. To spend ones precious time and youthful thoughts principally on decorating the body and amusing the fancy, to the neglect of that far nobler part, the mind, is a blunder too common among the fair sex. Dear Eliza, it is with a pleasure not easily described, I behold you shuning this fashionable vice, and seeking those things which will inevitably render you more charming in the eyes of every man of sense, than the finest features and best turned shapes that na|ture ever gave to a female, embellished with the gayest apparel the Indies afford. Persevere in your researches after knowledge, and you will soon get your head and heart filled—

With kinder things than can be told, With dearer things than tried gold, With fairer things than beauty bright, With nobler things than lover•• write.

And every man of sense will say—

To such an one of noble mind, I will of choice for once be join'd: For with the neat, the wise, and good, I may expect to serve the Lord.

I am,

dear Eliza,

Your real friend, STREPHON.

LETTER II. ELIZA TO STREPHON.

Sir,

I SHOULD wound the tenderest and most grateful feelings of my heart, were I to pass un|answered your friendly letter; and yet it is with a trembling hand I undertake to write. For you cannot be insensible, Strephon, that in my doing this, I assume a station most critical and delicate. However, such is the opinion I have formed of your honour and generosity, that I have presumed you will improve nothing which comes from me to my disadvantage. Perhaps I have ventured with unjustifiable confidence, too far upon the principles of friendship which have so long subsisted between you and your family▪ let this be as it may, I must tell you with all the sincerity I am mistress of, that I thank you for the books with which you were pleased to favour me, and likewise for the agreeable things you have said concerning the right understanding of them. I wish I may be so happy as to get my head and heart filled with those excellent things which surpass the glory of all those enjoyments the heedless world are panting for. I can assure you. Strephon, there is nothing I more earnestly desire, than to cultivate my mind, and regulate my affections—for,

Should youthful splendor lighten in my eyes, Clear as the s••iling glory of the skies; Sprinkled with radiant gold, a purple hue, My wings display, my robe celestial blue▪

More black than jet my curling tresses flow, My dimpled cheeks with rosy beauty glow,—

Yet, without an improved mind and pious heart, I am a wretch undone.

I am,

Sir,

your unfeigned friend and most humble servant▪ ELIZA.

N. B. An answer would be agreeable.

LETTER III. STREPHON TO ELIZA.

Dear Eliza,

I AM exceedingly pleased with your modest and delicate answer to my last, and will now assure you that the confidence which you have placed in my friendship shall never be abused. I know you stand in a delicate situation; however, let neither hand nor heart tremble when you write to Strephon, for his friendship is unfeigned, and his honour is pledged for your security. I am charmed with that ardour which glows in your heart for the improvem••nt of your mind, and the regulation of your affections. Your kind par|ents will indulge you with every suitable mean to obtain these great objects of your earnest pursuit. Wishing you all that success your heart can de|sire, I beg leave to subscribe myself

Your real friend and most humble servant, STREPHON

LETTER IV. STREPHON TO ELIZA.

Dear Eliza,

IF I mistake not, I have heard you observe, that you were peculiarly fond of history. It has just come into my head to give you a sketch of my life from Friday last to the present time. I am sor|ry my subject is of so melancholy a nature, how|ever, I will comfort myself that perhaps the next time I write to you, I may have a subject more lively and entertaining. We should not know how to prize the innumerable favours of this life, were we to experience no evils while in the world.

Between ten and eleven o'clock on Friday last, in a very weak and languid situation of body (for you must know I have been sick since you went from home) I took my leave of your honoured parents and dear family with an heart penetrated with un|dissembled gratitude, for the many favours they bestowed on me while at H—r. It would have been a consideration more pleasing than I am able to express, to have received a parting smile and charming look from my dearest friend, my lovely Eliza, but these were impracticable: The kindest hearts and dearest friends are sometimes ne|cessitated to bleed alone. You were from home and knew nothing of my sickness or emotions of heart.

Upon the road from your fathers to the Rev. Mr. H—•• my thoughts were principally em|ployed on the various affections and mercies, pains and pleasures, enjoyments and disappoint|ments of which I had been the subject during my

Hanoverian visit. I could not help thinking that this visit was a picture of human life in miniature, nor forbear adoring the great Jehovah for the many useful lessons I had been taught during it. O Eliza, mankind may say what they please, but I am persuaded, that it is as impossible for us to be truly happy without real virtue, as it is for us to be rich without the possession of any thing whatever. When I arrived at my old friend's, Mr. H—s, I found his son, the scholar, from Philadelphia, and daughter from New-York, were both at home; the whole family were apparently pleased to see me so far recovered from that dreadful state of illness under which I had been labouring. When people appear happy in our company, we are naturally led to think they are our real friends: but this is not unfrequently •• delusion. In such cases we sometimes find our|selves greatly deceived by the enchanting airs of love and friendship. O Eliza! Hypocrisy is one of the greatest blots that ever stained the dignity of man: may kind heaven ever keep you and I at the greatest remove from it.

I think Mrs. T— just as she was before she was married, only older—that Miss H— pants for the joys of matrimony—and that Miss P— will enter into the connubial state within ten days. At two in the afternoon I took my leave of the old gentleman and his lady, together with my merry friends, the young gentlemen and ladies, and proceeded on my way homeward a•• far as your brother B—l's, where I spe••t my time with more pleasure than is common on su•••• visits. It seems to me that your sister B•• is ••

woman of uncommon accomplishments; she is very agreeable in her conversation, and well worthy of the man who has chosen her for his com|panion in life: I wish all her Papa's daughters may make women as excellent as she is.

My next stage was at Mr. P—'s, where I al|ways call with peculiar pleasure. After some a|greeable chat, I enquired for your intimate friend Miss —, who was from home. I told my friends I had been lately informed by one who pre••ends to know almost every thing, that I was married to her, which raised an agreeable smile on every countenance in the room. Miss P—, however, not being at home, I was necessarily deprived of a sight of my bosom companion.

My next stage was at the Rev. Mr. L—s, where I was received just at dusk, with all that friendship which gladdens the heart of a weary traveller. Having supped, I walked out several rods from the house, where, in a sudden and sur|prising manner, I was seized with a fit of languor so great, that for some time▪ I despaired of ever reaching the house again; however, by some means or other, I know not by what, I got into the house, where my good friends used every mean in their power to keep life in me, for sever|al hours on the stretch. Miss B. your great inti|mate and admirer, with her brother, watched with me through the night; her kindness brought my friend Eliza into full view, whose tenderness to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 when formerly sick at her father's, can never be erased from my mind, while sensibility and r••••••••ction are undestroyed. Saturday, in a melancholy and dejected frame of mind, I got

home, where I remained in this unhappy situa|tion, till two in the afternoon of the next day, when I gained in some good degree, my natural flow of spirits, and experienced that pleasure and freedom of thought in contemplating the good|ness and mercy of God our Saviour, which no words can fully express. O Eliza, it is in him we live, move, and have our being; and nothing ought to divert our attention from the great duty of ascribing to him glory and honour for ever and ever.

Thus I have given you an imperfect sketch of the most remarkable events which have happened to me since I left your Papa's: and though they may appear trifling to an indifferent person, they may administer some satisfaction to a friend. I conclude this long letter with requesting an his|tory of your life since we had the happiness to see each other.

I am,

dear Eliza,

Your real friend, STREPHON.

LETTER V. ELIZA TO STREPHON.

Sir,

THAT assurance you were pleased to give me in your last, that the confidence I have placed in your friendship shall never be abused, is to me as balm poured into a wounded 〈◊〉〈◊〉. Believe me, the apprehension and groundless

fears I have endured since I wrote you that let|ter, have caused me much uneasiness. I have asked myself a thousand times, what propriety there could be in my writing to a gentleman of your character and situation in life: my only a|pology has been, that you were too much of a gentleman as well as friend to our family, to ex|pose a young creature, who from friendship, had as it were, thrown herself within your power. And I am happy beyond expression to find that my judgment was not erroneous. Your last has put all my uneasy feelings to rest; I feel my cha|racter safe in your generous hands. Be assured, my much esteemed friend (for in this style you will now permit me to address you) I most sin|cerely thank you for those historical anecdotes concerning yourself, with which you have favour|ed me. I do unfeignedly sympathize with you under all your sorrows, as well as rejoice with you in the participation of all those good things the God of love has bestowed on you. The re|covery of your health, and that flow of natural spirits so common to you, together with that calmness and tranquility of mind in devotional exercises, are circumstances of too much value, to pass unnoticed by a friend. I would now comply with your request, by giving you several sketches of my life since we saw each other, could I think them of such a nature as to admin|ister any real pleasure or amusement to you: but as this is probably not the case, you will pardon my silence, and believe me

Your real friend and humble servant, ELI••••.

A FEW weeks after Strephon and Eliza had exchanged the foregoing letters, in the full bloom of youth, health, vigour and innocency, they had the plea|sure of an interview at Eliza••s Father's, where un|dissembled friendship, piety and joy, generally tri|umph in every heart, and glow in every countenance.

At the first interview this couple ever had with each other, which was several years before this time, they were mutually struck with each other; but such were their circumstances that neither of them enter|tained the least thought of ever forming any other connection, but that of friendship —However, love, innocent love, glowed in their hearts, pure as the breath of heaven.

On a summer's eve, being seated under a green ar|bour, the thought for the first time sprang into Stre|phon's mind, Why will not Eliza, the young, the charming Eliza, make thee happy, O Strephon, in the sweet bondage of honourable wedlock? As soon as the idea had gained a••mit••ance in Strephon's grow|ing breast, he requested Eliza to spend a few hours with him that evening, in a manner they heretofore had not d••ne. A mixture of feelings now riotted in the heart of Eliza; and Strephon read in her lovely counte|nance the interest he had in her affections. Eliza could not deny the request of Strephon The evening therefore was spent ••n a manner too tender for de|scription.

Before this happy c••••ple pa••••ed, Strephon propos…ed a sec••nd visit of this innocent and affectionate kind: but Eliza, with a dignity that became an angel, ref••sed to comply with his request on any con•• short of his g••ang the approbation of her h•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and dear Parents. The heart of Strephon was 〈◊〉〈◊〉

too much under the power of Eliza's charms, long to hesitate on a matter of such importance to his happi|ness. And though the father of Eliza was a grave and reverend gentleman, whose presence never fail|ed to awe the spirits of the young and sprightly, yet love gained the ascendency over the natural modesty of Strephon, who embraced the first opportunity to open the important and delicate subject to Eliza's parent••s; and had the good fortune to obtain their full approba|tion to pay his attention to their daughter as a courtier. He likewise received from the old gentleman several excellent remarks on the nature of young people's keep|ing company with each other.

After which, Strephon made h••s returns to Eliza, with pleasure too great for language to express. And now the Courtship of Strephon and Eliza began to take place in form; their interviews were regularly once a week, for several months; after which the business of Strephon obliged this happy pair to part for some time. During their absence the following letters passed between them.

LETTER VI. STREPHON TO ELIZA.

Dear Eliza,

I HAVE snatched a few moments from the public labours of my delightful and important profession, to write to you.

Permit me to tell you (what I have never dis|closed to any mortal) that from the first moment

I saw you, I have been charmed with your person. And notwithstanding all this, to you only it must be confessed, that my feelings towards you are quite different from what they were previous to that solemn interview I had with your dear par|ents. Unfeigned esteem and friendship are things truly agreeable: but love, chaste love, far ex|ceeds them. By some means or other, I now be|gin to love my dear Eliza, whom heretofore I admired and treated as a friend only. I am con|fident that virtuous affections never yet injured humanity, and therefore recommend them to you as worthy of your attention.

Your's, &c. STREPHON.

LETTER VII. ELIZA TO STREPHON.

Sir,

THE obligation I laid myself under when we parted, to answer your letters, has caused me much anxiety, and not a little mortification; for I did not duly consider my inability to an|swer, with propriety, a gentleman's letters filled with such delicate and tender things as are con|tained in your last: However, I am bound, and therefore shall attempt to fulfil my engagement, with this proviso only, that you will indulge me with time sufficient to go through with the busi|ness.

Having confidence in your friendship, I will now frankly acknowledge, that it is my opinion, that my sex are always pleased with the idea of appearing to advantage in the view of your's: that this is my case with respect to you, is news to me, and what I am half afraid, will finally turn out to be nothing but flattery. It is true, that to be loved is one step above being admired, and what never fails to excite tender emotions in a gener|ous soul. I cheerfully thank you for that esteem and friendship you have professed for my person. And when I am properly convinced that I am the object of your affections, it will be time e|nough for me to acknowledge it.

Are not the following lines beautiful?

"What may for strength with steel compare? O love has fetters stronger far: By bolts of steel are limbs confin'd; But cruel love enchains the mind."

I am,

Sir,

Your real friend, and humble servant, ELIZA.

LETTER VIII. STREPHON TO ELIZA.

Dear Eliza,

IT is with peculiar pleasure I acknowldge ••he receipt of your modest and judicious letter upon the most delicate subject—for what can be

a subject more delicate for the pen of a female, than love? Believe me—nothing in this life ev|er gave me more pleasure, than that agreeable and lovely attitude in which you have presented yourself in this short epistle. You say, it is in compliance with the obligation under which you laid yourself at our parting with each other, that you have undertaken to answer my letters—and ask for time to complete the business: This is perfectly rational, and shall readily be granted. Such a temper must be delightful to one who wishes to see the object of his affections adorned with every amiable and lovely qualification. I am not at all surprised at your m••dest and guard|ed feelings, respecting an engagement of this kind. I thank you for acknowledging your ap|probation of my esteem and friendship; and can easily pass over your fears least my professed love should turn out to be nothing but flattery, seeing th•••• is the fate of many professions of this kind; and will wait for your acknowledgment of my love, till I shall be able to convince you that it is a reality. Be assured, the modesty and good sense you have displayed in your last, has charm|ed me more than all your beauty, though this is great in my view.

"Why will ELIZA, when I gaze, My ravish'd eyes reprove, And hide from them the only face, They can behold with love?

To shun her eye, and ease my care, I seek a nymph more kind; And while I ••ove from fair to fair, Still gentle usage ••••nd.

But Oh! how faint is every joy, Where Nature has no part; New beauties may my eyes employ, But you engage my heart.

So restless exiles doom'd to roam, Meet pity every where; Yet languish for their native home, Though death attends them there."

With sentiments of esteem and unfeigned love, I am, dear Eliza, forever thine, STREPHON.

LETTER IX. STREPHON TO ELIZA.

My lovely Eliza,

IT is now some time since I have been detained here, by reason of those heavy rains which the Author of Nature has been pleased to send us; and indeed I have no expectation of getting out of town till Monday next—when, if the wea|ther and my health (which is but poor) will per|mit, I shall set out on my journey for the de|lightful seat of your honored and dear Papa. Mr. Eliot, the candidate, is here, recovering fast from a tedious fit of sickness; he is as droll and as crazy as ever, and at times seems so fretish there is no living with him. Oh▪ Eliza, this world is full of sin and sorrow—Our pains are numerous, and pleasures few, comparatively speaking—Why then should we be so fond of it? Sure I am, aside from religion, there are but few

things worth living for; among these we may rank an agreeable bosom companion—the sweet|est enjoyment in time.—In hopes of such a fa|vour, I endure the hardships of life, and promise myself what, perhaps, I never shall realize—I mean great happiness in the married state: I hope I shall not be disappointed: However, it becomes us to be upon our watch against earthly objects taking up our affections in such a man|ner, as to leave no room in our minds for things spiritual and divine. My sentiments of the vol|ums your kinswoman desired me to send you, shall be given you in another letter, by the post on Thursday next, provided existing circum|stances will admit.

I am,

dear Eliza,

Your unfeigned friend and true lover, STREPHON.

LETTER X. STREPHON TO ELIZA.

My ever dear and lovely Eliza,

IT is with more pleasure than I can express, that I now enjoy an opportunity of comply|ing with your request respecting those elegant authors your fair kinswoman mentioned to me sometime since. Ro••••sseau, Fordyce, and D•• Gregory, have all written on subjects they have deemed of great importance to the fair sex▪ And it must be acknowledged, that they have said ma|ny

things worthy to be treasured up in a female mind: When at the same time, there are many other things said by these ingenious and elegant writers, which I am afraid will do young ladies more harm than good: The general strain, in which these gentlemen write, favours too much of female flattery; which cannot fail of giving disgust to a lady of sensibility, and at the same time of ensnaring those of less penetration. To excite thoughts in the minds of young girls, that nothing ought to be more regarded by them than to render themselves the desirable subjects of men's pleasures during a leisure hour, is to abuse the dignity of the female mind: Will not this lead to a shameful neglect of the mind and reli|gion, to make way for the purpose of decorating the body? If it be true, that the highest ambition a woman ought to have, is to please man (which seems to be the great theme of these writers) is it not true, they ought to be excused from know|ledge and religion?—which is absurd, and what every lady of sense and piety must despise from the bottom of her heart. However, I am satis|fied with your reading them, and think an inge|nious mind ma•• be greatly entertained with ma|ny things contained in them, especially those of the lower class of things worthy of a lady's atten|tion. Therefore I send you the writings on which I have been remarking, wishing you may make that use of them which reason dictates.

I am,

dear Eliza,

your friend and lover, STREPHON.

LETTER XI. STREPHON TO ELIZA.

My very dear Eliza,

AGREEABLE to your desire and my prom|ise, I embrace this opportunity of writing to you, by your friend Mr. D—, who was so o|bliging as to spend several hours with me the day past. Forgive my not writing by the post last week; it was entirely owing to unavoidable and unforeseen events, and not to any want of respect in me—for I do assure you, that love which glows in my heart for your person, forbids my neglecting any suitable opportunity of fulfiling my engagements to you. This world is all hur|ry, bustle, noise and nonsense, and they who are in it must be exposed to them: There are a few things, however, among the many disagreeable ones, which are truly desirable; a humble heart and a bosom companion, are things truly excel|lent—these I am in great need of, but I consider them as peculiar gifts of heaven, and to heaven I must look for them. Perhaps you may be in the same condition with myself; if so, let us lay our accounts together, and see if we cannot so regu|late matters as to obtain them. It is my inten|tion to be at your papa's soon. Please to make my compliments to your worthy and dear sister, and to all those facetious cousins who live at the next door. I should be happy to receive a line from you, before circumstances will admit of my accomplishing that long and tedious journey which I am so eagerly contemplating. Writing will not

injure, but improve your mind and perhaps your heart.—It frequently serves to give vent to the tenderest emotions of the soul, and of course to soothe the anxious and melancholy heart. I would not be without this mean of happiness for both of the Indies. Wishing you every blessing the God of love can bestow upon a creature, I beg leave to subscribe myself

Your real friend, and unfeigned lover, STREPHON.

LETTER XII. ELIZA TO STREPHON.

Sir,

I HAVE, unexpectedly, an opportunity of con|veying a line to you. I acknowledge the re|ceipt of four letters, which I have not answered: They are all calculated to administer great plea|sure to your unworthy friend, and as such de|mand my warmest gratitude, as well as speedy answer. I thank you for Rousseau, Fordyce and Gregory; they are authors I have heard much of, but never saw before. My papa's remarks on them correspond with yours. My mama thinks them compositions in which nature is too much neglected, and art idolized. My kinswomen, (whom you know are merry creatures) think them just right; for, according to the sentiments of these gentlemen, we girls, say they, should be

troubled with little else than dress. visits, courti|sies and dances; with them it is a matter of no consequence whether women have sense or not, provided they are immersed in a round of amuse|ments and trifling pleasures. It gives me un|speakable pleasure to hear that you are once more in possession of a considerable degree of health; and more still, to hear that it is proba|ble I may see you soon—for, without flattery, I must confess your welfare lies near my heart. With respect to the two things you mention as desirable and yet wanting, I think they must be of great importance in the view of every consid|erate person, and wish you may be speedily bless|ed with them: With respect to myself, my ••••tu|ation is not unlike yours, as you very well know; and whether it will ever be otherwise is uncer|tain. I wish you would be so kind as to inform me what qualifications you are looking for in the person with whom you would wish to match. The whole circle of my female intimates say, Eliza, tell Strephon we want his company here.

Adieu, ELIZA.

LETTER XIII. STREPHON TO ELIZA.

My charming Eliza,

〈…〉〈…〉

which I wish to find in the person with whom I may hereafter match.

I wish her to be the favourite child of respect|able parents, educated in the Christian religion. With respect to her person, I should wish she might be above the common size of women, well-proportioned in body and limbs; her skin white and ruddy; her eyes black and sparkling; her hair brown and flowing, and her features well pro|portioned one with the other: But what I should prize above all the rest, is a dignified mind, full of activity, generosity and meekness—unless it be some peculiar qualifications of heart, such as be|nevolence and patience, with a soul turned for love: For if ever I match with any one in this life, I mean to love her till death. Such then is the lovely creature I wish for my bosom com|panion; and permit me say, such, in my opinion, is my dearest Eliza.

Yours affectionately, STREPHON.

LETTER XIV. ELIZA TO STREPHON.

Sir,

I AM much obliged to you for the striking por|trait you have given of the lady with whom you wish to spend your life as a bosom compan|ion; but expect you will die an old bachelor▪ if you wait till you find one who answers your de|scription in every particular. I cannot, howev|er,

forbear mentioning my surprise, that a gen|tleman of your taste and judgment should apply this description to me; the reason is, because I have no such ideas of myself: Notwithstanding, could I think you sincere, I should be exceed|ingly happy, though you were actually deluded. What I most fervently wish is, that you may meet with one every way to your mind.

Your real friend, ELIZA.

LETTER XV. STREPHON TO ELIZA.

Dearest of Girls,

I THANK you for your sensible and modest answer to my last. I would by no means flat|ter you by the portrait of the charming creature I wish for my companion in life. It is not im|possible but I may be mistaken in some things respecting you; however, I flatter myself it is not very probable that this is really the case; for such has been my acquaintance with you sev|eral years before I presumed to treat you as a lover, that I have been under peculiar advan|tage in forming an accurate judgment of your mental and moral qualifications. That you should perceive the power of your own charm•• as sensibly as I do, is neither probable nor desir|able; for this would cast a shade on that amiable character which you now exhibit before the eyes of the penetrating and judicious—it might be|tray

you into some imprudent conduct, which to you is now a stranger. I wish to express my own views and feelings in a manner ••hat cannot wound yours. For the present I will be content with the following lines as descriptive of your general character.

"Favours to none—to all she smiles extends: "Oft she rejects; but never once offends."

Dearest Eliza

adieu,

STREPHON.

AFTER Strephon and Eliza had exchanged the foregoing letters, they were favoured, for several months together, with frequent and endearing inter|views with each other: And upon every interview, their affections for one another encreased with the greatest rapidity: However, such were the circum|stances of Strephon, that he was obliged to take leave of the idol of his heart, his dear Eliza, for several months. This was truly mortifying, not only to Strephon, but to Eliza, who now began to feel her happiness connected with the company of her Streph|on. At their parting, they mutually agreed to bear each other upon their hearts, before the throne of grace, morning and evening, till kind providence should bring them together again. The sight of a couple's parting, who were so happy in each other's company, must have been truly affecting. We will leave them to their own reflections for a few weeks, and then attend to the epistolary correspondence which followed.

LETTER XVI. STREPHON TO ELIZA.

Kind and affectionate Eliza,

TWO days since I arrived at this place.— There was nothing on my journey worthy of your attention. The politeness and generosity of this great and populous town to me, demand my warmest gratitude: I could not wish to be among a people more kind, hospitable and de|vout. My situation here is such, that I am fre|quently visited by the wise and pious, whom you know are the most desirable company. I had like to have said, I want nothing more to make me happy (I mean of this world) than the com|pany of my dear Eliza. Please to make my compliments to your dear parents; and forget not to mention me to your sister, and your mer|ry cousins, whom you know feel interested in my welfare. May the blessings of heaven rest upon thee, thou dearest friend and lover.

STREPHON.

LETTER XVII. STREPHON TO ELIZA.

My dearest friend,

IT is with grateful emotions of heart, that I realize such a degree of health as will admit of my writing a few lines to one whom I love

more than words can express. You would have heard from me before now, had I enjoyed health sufficient for the purpose of writing. Three times successively have I been taken down within these two months, with the intermitting fever; and am now just recovering from the last and most severe turn of all. When I shall be able to re|turn to year papa's, where, in days past, I have received so much instruction, pleasure and satis|faction, is quite uncertain: However, if circum|stances do not forbid, I mean to see the old mansion house seven or eight weeks from the present time. Did I enjoy the company of my dear Eliza here, I should be less anxious for a sight of that ancient dome. During my sickness, I have been favoured with all that attention one could wish. The soothing accents of friendship, in times of distress, are like cordials to a fainting man, and demand our sincerest gratitude. I be|gin to learn (for sickness has taught me) to set my heart on nothing under the sun, my Eliza excep|ted—whom I am afraid has too large a share of my affections: But we will drop this, and attend to the happy situation of the good man—which may be represented in the following lines.

Though troubles dire, on every hand▪ In sad confusion rise, The soul sincere, can humbly hope For peace beyond the skies.

Resign'd, the good man waits his fate, Or meets his savage foe; And death, if death must be his doom, Compos'd he'll undergo.

The God within solves every doubt, And gives his soul to see That he who strikes the fatal blow But sets the captive free.

Wishing you health, and every other blessing you are capable of enjoying, I beg leave to subscribe myself

Your friend and true lover till death, STREPHON.

LETTER XVIII. STREPHON TO ELIZA.

Lovely Eliza,

THE good people belonging to the family, except a man servant, are all gone to church; and though it is sabbath day, I have undertaken to write a few lines to my dearest friend. Yester|day morning I proposed to set out for H—on the morrow; but to my great mortification, be|fore eleven o'clock on that day, I was confined with my old disorder: This is the fourth severe turn of the fever I have experienced since we parted: When a kind providence will indulge me with health to pursue my delightful employ|ment, God only knows: Within these six weeks past I have been bereaved of an affectionate mother, and five brethren and sisters; they all died suddenly, and in close succession to each other. Oh, Eliza, all earthly enjoyments are passing away; they are on the wing of time, and

will soon get beyond our reach. Your welfare has laid near my heart in the midst of all my pains and sorrows. The silent watches of the night will witness the fulfilment of my solemn en|gagement to bear you on my heart at the throne of grace. May the God of love inspire our hearts with love unfeigned to himself, who is the foun|tain of blessedness.—Without this, no enjoyment of any kind can save us from complete wretch|edness and everlasting despair. Should you say I write like a preacher instead of a lover—I an|swer, I mean to do nothing on God's holy day inconsistent with seriousness and solemnity of spi|rit, for the blessing of heaven is pronounced on those who keep the sabbath holy unto the Lord. May grace, peace and mercy be multiplied unto you.

I am yours affectionately, STREPHON.

LETTER XIX. STREPHON TO ELIZA.

Dear Eliza,

IT is with peculiar pleasure I embrace this fav|ourable opportunity of informing you of my recovery from sickness: O the difference between a state of health and vigour, and a state of sick|ness and languor! If I thought you would be pleased to see me, I should soon be on the wing for it; but I am afraid you have almost forgotten your friend and true lover, presuming that other|wise

you would have written to me before now. Alas!—

Our friends, like troubles, out of sight, Are oft forgotten, day and night. But shall I e'er of thee conclude Thy tender heart is grown so rude? No—Eliza, above the rest. Has love ••nkindled in her br••ast: A virtuous flame, half divine, Cannot be quench'd by length of time.

Notwithstanding all I have said, provided cir|cumstances will admit, you may expect to see me within six weeks from this time: Then, perhaps, we may be so pleased with each other, as to de|sire a more intimate connection within six months: Don't say I have told you no news—I confess I can hardly believe it myself.

Yours affectionately, STREPHON.

LETTER XX. ELIZA TO STREPHON.

Sir,

IT is with pleasure I acknowledge the receipt of four letters from you since we parted. The several anecdotes respecting your person, and cir|cumstances contained in them, are truly interest|ing. My heart has repeatedly trembled at the re|lation you have given of your bodily indispo|sition, least I should never see you again. I

sympathize with you in the loss of your kind par|ent and affectionate brothers and sisters. The voice of providence is loud—Let us be ready for our last change. O the distinguishing goodness of God—your relatives are no more, and we are yet alive! I most heartily congratulate you on your recovery from that state of weakness in which you have languished so long. O, my friend, be thankful, and let the spared life be de|voted to him from whom all our favours con|stantly flow. I must, I will frankly acknowledge the several declarations of your friendship. The following lines were penned on the evening of that day in which I received your letter contain|ing an account of your late sickness. They were written for my own amusement, and are now 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to you for yours.

In what soft language shall my thoughts get ••r•• My dearest Strephon, when I write of thee? Ye muses, graces, all ye gentle train Of weeping lovers, assist my friendly strain. But why should I implore your moving art? Tis but to write the dictates of my heart; For all who know the charming youth, will join Their pious sighs and friendly tears to mi••e For all who know his sorrows must confess In grief for him there can be no excess. His soul is form'd to act each glorious part Of life, unstain'd with vanity or art. No thought within his generous mind has birth Too rude for one to own to heav'n or earth. May heav'n his life in usefulness prolong— These are my ••••ghs, my prayer and my song.

My papa has great anxiety respecting your ••ealth, and frequently (though not in the presence 〈…〉〈…〉) says, Eliza, have you heard from

Strephon within these four or five weeks past? I am obliged to say yes, or to say nothing; either of which is trying to my feelings. Be so kind, Sir, as to write him a line or two; it will be agree|able to him, and free me from answering questi|ons, which are truly trying to my nerves. Your merry friends, my cousins, rally me on the arrival of every post, and with shrewed countenances ask, What news from the island? And sometimes Nan|cy says, What news from Strephon? we had a rumour the other day, that he was sick. A letter from you Sir, to my Papa, will in a measure free me from these perplexing questions, and greatly oblige your anxious friend.

I am,

Sir,

Your real friend, and most humble servant, ELIZA.

LETTER XXI. STREPHON TO ELIZA.

JANUARY 27, 1776.

My ever charming Eliza,

YOUR favour of the 15th inst. demands, and absolutely has, my most unfeigned gratitude: a jewel plucked from the richest diadem could not have pleased me a thousandth part so much. By some means or other my heart from day to day grows more and more charmed with my lo•••• Eliza. That I speak the sentiments of truth, a••

not of flattery, you will not deny, when you have perused the inclosed letters.

Lady G— was the widow of my Lord G— of about twenty four years of age, and the only daughter and favourite child of my friend, the Rev. Dr. B—, who, when a young man, was peculiarly intimate with your honoured and dear father.

The letters are thus:

LADY G— TO STREPHON.

January 4, 1776.

Sir,

I BELIEVE you will be much surprized when you read the contents of this paper.

That I should write on a subject of this kind, is what I could not have believed, though an an|gel should have declared it unto me. My throb|bing heart and trembling hand, forbids me to proceed: or rather female delicacy and pru|dence seem to be in close combat with my affec|tions—my love triumphs—I must, I will tell you, that I unfeignedly love you!—What can you think! What can my friends think of me! Yea, what can I think of myself, that I should write in such a strain to one, with whom I have never had any very particular acquaintance—to one, whose sentiments of friendship, and circumstances respecting the fair sex, are unknown, is wonder|ful to myself! That I should hazard my rep••ta|tion, by a course of conduct, which▪ I have the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 con••iction, has not unfrequently appeared 〈…〉〈…〉, if not a••tended with disaffection, i•• a••.

Believe me, much respected Sir, since the de|parture of my Lord G—, I have many a time drawn up, as I then thought, a firm resolution never to marry again; for I had concluded that it was impossible for me ever to esteem and love another man with that fervency of affection I have had for him: My present feelings towards you have detected the delusion, and proved all such opinions of the human species to be ground|less: However, by some means or other, I have been led to imagine that our dispositions are so much alike, that we should be more happy in a m••rried than we can be in a single state. A pri|vate interview, perhaps, may settle this matter to our mutual satisfaction. After all, I must tell you, Sir, that did I not apprehend you to be a real friend to true virtue, I should by no means wish to form any intimate connection with you. For what purpose these throbbings of heart and glowings of soul towards you, are formed in my ••reast, I cannot tell. Perhaps they are ••o try and prove my virtue: One thing, however, is certain, they have increased from the first moment I eve•• saw you.—They have grown strong, and triumph|ed over the most faithful remonstrances and ar|guments I have been able to bring against them▪ For, when I have seriously reflected on the dis|agreeable circumstances which frequently attend second marriages, both with respect to parents and children—when I have meditated upon matching with one whose employment will proba|bly call for my removal from a situation near an aged and affectionate parent; a situation, sur|rounded with numerous relatives, tried friends

and entertaining acquaintance: When I have re|flected on these things, together with the possibil|ity of my being less happy in the married than in the single state, my affections for you have not been at all abated. These facts lead me to ob|serve, that in my view, I am a kind of miracle, for I cannot understand my own heart. I have no doubt but I could marry in a manner equal to my situation in life, were I disposed to accept any of the offers made to me of late; but this is not agreeable to my present feelings. It is not, there|fore, barely for a companion, but for the man whom I love, that I would change my situation. And now, perhaps, I shall be obliged to taste the bitter cup, which I have turned out to others—I mean a denial of your affections. But, O Sir, think not of me as I have foolishly thought of others in like circumstances, that it is a slight of fancy, and not love, which so powerfully moves and agitates my soul. Sure I am, I never had that love for any man, while in a single state, which now glows in my wounded heart for you. But what am I doing? In days past my indigna|tion has been fired against those ladies, who, sin|gle, had openly expressed their affections for any particular man; and indeed, my reason now con|demns this practice as imprudent: But love, all powerful love, triumphs over reason, judgment and education. My heart is engaged, and I must go through with the business. Dear Sir, be so kind as to inform me, whether you are under any particular engagement to any of my sex? If you are, I am undone▪ If you are not, I shall still hope for happiness in this life. I shall be in the

greatest anxiety till I know what reception you will please to give these lines. For whether I succeed or not, my troubled heart will give me no rest till I know my fate. There are sundry reasons I could mention, which have led me to indulge the flattering idea, that a near connection with me would not be disagreeable to you—but I must suppress them. And now I begin to trem|ble, least my freedom in writing should lessen your affections, and excite in your heart hatred for my person. When I recollect myself, I am ready to conclude my pride must be asleep—to say nothing of those delicate feelings of the fe|male of which I once flattered myself I was am|ply possessed—otherwise I could not have ven|tured so far, on imprudent ground, as I have done: However, I flatter myself, that you are 〈◊〉〈◊〉 gentleman of too much goodness and generosity, not to fe•••• for a person in my situation—not to cast a mantle of love over my weakness, folly and indiscretion. I cannot conclude this long letter, without asking a thousand pardons for every thing you may find amiss in it, and requesting you nev|er to communicate this epistle to the nearest friend in life. Please to commit this to the flames, when you have learned its contents. I have too much respect for your character to indulge the most distant idea of your ever injuring mine.— Thus being irres••stibly impelled by love unfeign|••••••, with a bleeding, trembling heart, I have thrown myself within your power. O Sir, use me as a gentleman of unbounded generosity, and lay me under everlasting obligations of gratitude.

I am your admirer friend and lover, G—

P. S. Sir, Please to excuse the badnes•• of my writing, the inelegancy of my composition, and every thing else in the above letter offensive to you.—Eleven o'clock, Friday evening. Dear Sir, I know not what to do. I am in a great dilemma whether to send you the above letter or not. If I should send it, and it should not meet with your approbation, I shall be mor|tified to death. If I should not send it, and of consequence, should not obtain your affections, I should forever reproach myself with omitting the only probable, though dangerous mean of obtaining the man whom I love as I do my life. Love triumphs once more—the letter goes.— I trembling wait to know my fate.

STREPHON TO LADY G—.

January 10, 1776.

Madam,

YOUR affectionate letter should have been an|swered before now, had not a variety of circum|stances rendered it impracticable. The day in which I received it, I could get no time to read, much more to answer it. The next day was the Sabbath. Monday and Tuesday we••e ••holly ta|ken up with pre-engaged business—••o that the present moment is the first which has put it into my power to relieve your tender heart from that anxiety which I know your peculiar circumstances must produce.

Believe me, dear Madam, I feel myself un|able to express the grateful emotions of my heart, fo•• that favourable opinion you have been pleas|ed

to f••rm of my person, sentiments and charac|ter. You have graced the preface to your ad|dress with a note of admiration. That a person of your birth, education, character and circumstan|ces in life, should write to one in my situation on so tender and delicate a subject as love, is in|deed not unworthy of several notes of admira|tion. That foolish modesty, fear and bashful|ness, which prevents your sex from disclosing the tender emotions of their hearts to gentlemen of character, has ever appeared to me an imperfec|tion. I confess, the tyrannical laws of custom, however, in many cases, have put it out of their power to do this with so much safety and honour as the rights of women demand. Aside from this, I can see no more impropriety in a lady's communicating her thoughts on love to a gen|tleman of character, than there is in a gentleman's communicating his thoughts on the same subject to a lady of character: Therefore I beg you would give yourself no uneasiness on the account of the innocent freedom you have taken in writ|ing to me on the most tender and delicate sub|ject that ever employed the pen of either men or women. It is evident to my mind, notwithstand|ing all your notes of admiration and modest apol|ogies, that had not the secret sentiments of your heart been similar to mine, on this subject your address would have never seen the light. In|clination, honour and piety constrain me to deal generously with you, Madam: I must, therefore, let you know, that my circumstances in life are such as forbid my marrying so soon as perhaps would be agreeable to you. To match with a

lady surrounded with so many reputable friends and acquaintance—a lady who all her life has lived in the greatest affluence—without the means of supporting her in this way of life—is a thought so grating to my feelings, and mortifying to my spirits, that it cannot be harboured in my breas•• a single moment: And yet I will no•• ••elie my own feelings. The fact is, I have no objection ••o a married life, simply considered; but believe it the happi|est situation, all things being equal, that men or women can be in, while in this imperfect state. A•• soon, therefore, as circumstances shall unite to render it proper, I am determined to be bound by the sweet and delicate chains of matrimony. You will bear it in mind, that nothing which I have said, is designed to give you the most dis|tant intimation of the least aversion from your person and connections; on the contrary, I feel myself greatly honoured by your unsought, your unexpected esteem and love. Notwithstanding it is very probable you would choose to alter your situation much sooner than it would be consist|ent for me to do: Moreover, I am constrained to tell you (for I must and will be generous with you) that I have my eye on a young lady, whose per|son, temper, character and circumstances are such as invite my attention, and create in my breast a hope, that in some future period, we may be in the enjoyment of each other: this I own is little more than conjecture; however, as her name is concealed, what I have written can 〈◊〉〈◊〉 of no injury to her reputation, should it be made ever so public. As to a private interview with you, Madam, I can assure you, it would have

been very agreeable had circumstances concur|red with my inclination; but this pleasure I must postpone to some future period. Next Monday, by the leave of Providence, I must journey to the westward; when I shall return to this place is uncertain. Permit me to conclude this epis|tle, dear Madam, with unfeignedly wishing you every blessing you are capable of enjoying, in time and in eternity.

I am your obliged friend, and most humble servant, STREPHON.

LADY G— TO STREPHON.

January 13, 1776.

Dear Sir,

THIS day your endearing favour came fa•••• to hand, and met with the ••indest ••e••eption. Before I was informed of the occurrences which delayed your answer to my first, I was naturally led to fear, that the person, for whom I had ex|pressed so much esteem and affection, was un|grateful. Your letter, Sir, has banished all such apprehensions from my troubled breast, and ca••••|ed the tumults of my bleeding heart. My affec|tion for you, Sir, is truly great; and had I not been conscious of violating the tyrannical laws of custom, my address would not have been in|••••••lard••d with so many notes of admiration. Not|withstanding this concession, I must do myself the justice to affirm, that I am not wholly unac|quainted with those delicate feelings which are always put on the rack, when a modest lady de|clares

her affections for any particular gentle|man—I mean in an unmarried state. What mor|tifies me most of all is, that upon so slight an ac|quaintance, I should suffer my heart so quick to to be carried away with your charms—and my pen so soon to disclose the melancholy tale. Be assured, Sir, nothing alloys my anxiety on this subject so much as the testimony of my own con|science, that I have acted in sincerity. Your strictures on the tyrannical laws of custom are, in my opinion, just; and indeed are such as have not unfrequently occurred to my own mind when reflecting on this subject. Were women allowed the same liberty to communicate their affections to men, as men are to communicate theirs to the women—I believe unhappy matches would be less numerous. One thing is certain, I shall now have no reason to reproach myself with the ne••glect of any mean I thought justifiable to obtain a gentleman for my companion, for whom I had the highest esteem and the most unbounded af|fection. Your condescension in stating your ob|jections against altering your situation soon, gives me both pleasure and pain; pleasure to find you so obliging and sincere; and pain lest some one or more of these objections may prove an insur|mountable obstacle to my happiness: Politeness and sincerity are not unfrequent inducements to love; and in this instance I feel their influence most sensibly: However, I cannot forbear smil|ing at one of your ingenious objections against soon entering the conjugal state. No wonder you imagine me disposed to marry soo••er than you are inclined to do—My letter has given you

sufficient reason to draw this conclusion: But, dear Sir, I am unfeignedly sincere in the decla|ration of my affection for you—and will now tell you, that I will wait for you any period of time you may think proper to propose; provided you can assure me, you are under no engagement to any of my sex, and will attend to my request, which to me is a subject of the last importance. In the mean time I must let you know, Sir, that I never shall consent to match with any person living—no, not even with yourself, whom I love almost to distraction, without ample evidence of being loved by the same. Where affections are not reciprocal, there can be nothing of the deli|cate nature of social and refined happiness. Va|rious circumstances have led me to conclude you have some esteem of and love for my person: This conclusion emboldened me to address you in the manner I have done, and yet I am afraid my un|guarded expressions will lessen your affections for me. I must be indulged in hoping you will never improve my freedom to the injury of my character, whether you finally comply with my proposals or not. It gives me much satisfaction to hear that a private interview is not disagree|able. I shall wait with great anxiety till that happy moment arrives—when we shall have op|portunity, without the mediums of pen and ink, to know one anothers heart. It is the fervent and unceasing prayer of my soul, that the great disposer of all things may direct you, Sir, in the line of duty respecting this delicate and momen|tuous affair. Though I feel that I should be hap|py in forming with you the nearest connection in

life, yet I cannot desire you to act contrary to your duty or your inclination.

Before I conclude this letter, I must observe, that your generosity will prompt you to pas••over my imperfections, and acknowledge my sincerity, as well as to plead with your God that I may be truly resigned to the will of that providence which regulates all things in the wisest and best manner. The continuation of a correspondence with you, is what I sincerely wish, provided it meets with your cordial approbation. With the greatest sin|cerity, I beg leave to subscribe myself

Your unfeigned lover▪ G—.

To Strephon.

P. S. Excuse the following lines.

O God, how swift my moments fly!How great's the thought that I must die!How short's a day, a month, a year!How fast my moments disappear!O God of love, Almighty pow'r,May I imp••ove the present hour.Devote myself to thee in time,And ripen fast for joys sublime.Ye dying things, and earthly joys,Ye anxious cares and trifling toys,Tempt me no more, be banish'd hence;And thou my God, be my defence.When Jesus is my only guide,Then let my moments swiftly glide▪••d O, when time shall be no more,Sa••e land me on the heav'nly shore.Eternities unbounded space,Shall know the riches of thy grace;I'll jo•••• with all the heav'nly throng,Free grace! free grace! shall be my song.

STREPHON TO LADY G—.

January 19, 1776.

Madam,

YOUR favour of the 13th instant, came safe to hand on the last Sabbath. I should have an|swered it before now had it been in my power. Last Saturday, as you have doubtless heard, I was taken down with my old disorder, the intermitting fever.—This turn of the fever has proved more severe than any I have experienced heretofore. I am, however through the kind hand of provi|dence, so far relieved from pain, as to be able to set up and write a few lines to my much respect|ed friend.

Dear Madam, The careful perusal of your se|cond letter, has raised a doubt in my mind, whe|ther you properly understood my first letter to you: Whether I was so explicit as the case re|quired, I will not undertake to affirm. You will please to recollect, however, that among the seve|ral reasons I offered for not chusing to marry ve|ry speedily, I mentioned a young lady on whom I had fixed my eye, and for whom I had some regard; in the enjoyment of whom, I might, in some future period, be exceedingly happy. This, it is true, was mentioned as something entirely conjectured: However, from these representa••tions, I imagined you would natu••••lly draw•• conclusion not far from the truth, viz. that I had n•• particular inclination to pay my addresses to yo•• as suitor; but as a friend; for w••om I had a•• unfeigned esteem, and to whom •• felt myself un|der

peculiar obligations for that regard you have expressed for my person. Upon these principles I was ready to comply with your requests, both as to a private interview and familiar correspon|dence. Whether you understood me in this manner, you will please to let me know in your next, Notwithstanding all this, I most seriously declare, that I know not, but on a farther ac|quaintance, you may appear infinitely more love|ly in my view than ever I have appeared in yours, or than any of your sex have ever appear|ed in mine. I am certainly much pleased with that innocent and undisguised freedom—with those glows of modesty—with that happy talent of communicating your sprightly thoughts on the tender and delicate subject of love—as well as with your turn for poetry and religion; which you have exhibited in the scene you have been acting. Cultivate, my dear friend, by every possible mean, these excellent talents, and they will not fail of commanding the attention of ev|ery man off sense, with whom you form an ac|quaintance. That the refreshing dews of grace divine may attend you through this vale of tears, is the prayer, dear Madam, of

Your sincere friend, and most obliged humble servant, STREPHON.

LADY G— TO STREPHON.

January 22, 1776.

Sir,

I HAVE this moment received your letter of the 19th instant—for which I give you many thanks. The restoration of your health de|mands my gratitude and joy, and they shall not be suppressed. Now, Sir, I will inform you, that I believe there is no misunderstanding between us. When I read your first letter, I was willing ••o hope you were possessed of that tender and generous passion which heretofore has, and still does, so powerfully agitate my soul; for you can|not be insensible that we naturally hope for those things we most fervently desire. It is an old adage, that love has no eyes; and this reminds me of my stupidity, in not taking your ideas from your first letter, however, you will forgive me, if I say you were not so explicit as my sincerity▪ frankness and love required. Be assured, dea•• Sir, my tender and affectionate feelings for you have by no means left me on my disappointment Virtuous love yet glows in my bleeding hea•••• with an irresistible sway. The velocity, sens••••bility and keenness of my passions are well know•• by all my acquaintance; yea, they are such 〈◊〉〈◊〉 cannot pass unnoticed by your eagle eye. Be••lieve me, dear Sir, had I not entertained a hope that you were truly generous and unfeigned•••• pious, I should not have taken the measur•• which I have adopted, to obtain you as my nea••••est friend and dearest companion. I know chr••••••tian

love and affection are things quite different from the natural glows of heart which graceless persons experience towards each other: but you are sensible, Sir, that when two persons experi|ence natural affections judiciously mingled with spiritual ones, they rise to the highest pitch of happiness they are capable of in time: This I have hoped might be our case—for I know my love to you, Sir, has been and still is sincere and ve|hement, as well as virtuous; and although I may have been unguarded in my expressions, and per|haps imprudent in my conduct (which are cir|cumstances truly mortifying) yet I cannot reproach myself of doing that, which, at the time, I was conscious was very criminal. Had you not been ••igh in the esteem of my greatest friends, as well 〈◊〉〈◊〉 myself, prudence might have triumphed over ••e clamors of my bleeding heart, and saved me ••••om that dilemma into which I have plunged, ••d out of which I know not how to extricate myself with honour. But what am I saying? It ••s not the esteem of friends, nor yet the esteem which I had for your person, that urged me on 〈◊〉〈◊〉 snatch you from the embraces of all my sex— ••ut love, irresistible love, that agitated my ••eart, and contrary to all arguments, swayed my ••••ul into that course of conduct which, in this af|••••ir. I have taken. I needed correction—for in ••••ys past, I have been guilty of insincerity and ••ngratitude to broken hearted lovers; and now I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the pungent pain, which many a time I have ••en to a worthy youth with too little sensibility 〈◊〉〈◊〉 soul. I am really reproved and mortifyed at ••he ••ight of my own folly.

And now, dear Sir, permit me earnestly to re|quest you, as a gentleman, to commit this and my former letters to the flames—or send them, by the bearer, inclosed to me, with your sacred promise never to publish their contents to the dis|advantage of my character. Surely you cannot be so ungrateful to one who has loved you so sincerely, as to deny her this small request: Re|member your compliance will greatly ease my troubled heart, and raise you, if possible, higher in my esteem than ever you have yet been. This is the first, and I believe it will be the last time I shall ever expose myself in this way. What has taken place I hope will not unfit me for future usefulness in the world. I should be greatly grieved were it to render me odious in the view of my friends and acquaintance: But, Oh! had you been possessed of that generous passion which even now burns in my wounded heart, I have not the least doubt, but our mutual affections would have me▪ with the cordial approbation o•• my honoured friends and relatives. Love is a free, a voluntary passion—the gold of both the Indies cannot purchase it, nor the powers of all the earth destroy it. But since my love cannot be returned, I will try to keep it in subjection to reason, prudence and religion. Hush my hea•••• and be still. I hope you will still indulge me with your christian affection: May thi•• be mutual be|tween us, till we gain that heavenly state, where they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God, triumphing in 〈◊〉〈◊〉 love of the all glorious Jehovah: O that the sa|cred flame might now inspire our souls with

glows of seraphic ardor, which shall run parallel with the unceasing revolutions of a vast eternity. ••o devoutly prays

Your unfeigned friend, and most humble servant, G—.

To Strephon.

P. S. Farewel! farewel my beloved friend; ••lways remembering that it is less painful to a ••••••erous soul, to forgive a crime, than to an of|••••nder to request it. May the guardian angels ••••end you through this vale of tears, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 those lovely eyes from ever wounding anoth|•••• heart, as they have incurably wounded mine. ••dieu, dearest Strephon, a final adieu!

G—.

Dear Eliza,

THE five foregoing letters contain a very in|••••esting correspondence, upon a subject truly ••••dicate and impor••••nt. Mrs. G— is really a ••y of great merit: She is young, s••nsible, beau|••••••••••, rich and pious—with a soul formed for love, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 surrounded with friends and connections of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the greatest reputation in this land. This cor|••••••pondence is presented to you, for the sole pur|••••••e of impressing your mind with the idea, that ••re can be no object so dear to me as yourself. 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••ust entreat you by all the ties of friendship 〈◊〉〈◊〉 generosity, not to disclose it to a single person 〈◊〉〈◊〉 earth. Nothing but a desire of giving you 〈◊〉〈◊〉 greatest evidence in my power that I love 〈◊〉〈◊〉 above all others, could have prevailed on 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to lay this correspondence before you.

I am, lovely Eliza, your unfeigned friend, and true lover, till deat••, STREPHON.

LETTER XXII. ELIZA TO STREPHON.

JANUARY 30, 1776.

Sir,

I HAD the pleasure to receive your acceptable letter of the 27th of January, last evening. Believe me, I can never be thankful enough for that confidence you have reposed in my prudence and generosity, in disclosing that long and inter|esting correspondence you have had with lady G—. My honoured father, with whom Dr. B. her father, formerly had the greatest intimacy, has, within my hearing, frequently descanted on the charms of this young, beautiful and pious widow. I am surp••ised you we••e not taken in with her rare accomplishmen••s, for they are just such as I should have thought would have catch|ed your affections, and commanded your heart, above those of any other lady living: She was a person of birth and education, beautiful and devout, with a large estate to render you happy; and what I should have thought would have charmed you more than all the rest, she had 〈◊〉〈◊〉 soul turned for love. What aile•• you, Strephon▪ Did sickness blunt the keenness of your sensibil|ity, or where you not yourself, when you spurne•• the affections of a lady every way so accomplish|ed? However, I must say, that I think her am|ourous freedom was carried too far for the del••••cate tone of a female nerve: But I check my|self, for I am no judge of the power of love. 〈◊〉〈◊〉

••eems, for a while, you were half disposed to give her your heart. O the struggles, the throws of ••er bleeding heart! I cannot help pitying the ••fflicted and distressed creature; and at the same ••ime I am provoked to smile at her imprudence— perhaps it would become me more to drop a ••ear over it. You have helped her out as well as you could—in the performance of which, I ••hink you have acted the generous part. The ••ixture of feelings, which glow throughout her several epistles, are a sight truly entertaining; ••er devotion appears sincere, but she too fre|••uently loses sight of it, and turns to the melan|••holy tale of her wounded heart. I am sure her ••se must have given your generous soul great ••n. All my feelings, excited by reading this ••orrespondence, shall not now be disclosed to 〈◊〉〈◊〉; perhaps I may hereafter have an opportu|••••••y of doing it with much more proprie•••• ••han 〈◊〉〈◊〉 present is practicable. One thing you may ••••pend upon as fact, your conduct in this singu|•••••• affair, has greatly endeared your person to

Your friend and humble servant, ELIZA.

FROM the 16th of February to the 4th of April, ••••76, Strephon and Eliza were favoured with more ••••quent interviews with each other, than they ever ••cyed before; and upon each inter••iew their mutu|•••• affections encreased with the greatest rapidity, till 〈◊〉〈◊〉 arise to such an height, that it became agreeable ••n to submit to the sweet chains of matrimony: which they did on the evening of the 4th of April, ••••76. Since which, they have lived in all the joys

and innocent pleasures the conjugal state affords▪ constantly encreasing in esteem and love for one another. As a testimony of this, we will copy two letters which passed between this happy couple, more than nineteen years after their marriage.

Business of importance called Strephon to be absent from his enchanting Eliza, for several weeks to|gether, during which time, the following letters pass|ed between him and his other self.

STREPHON TO ELIZA.

My ever ••ear, ever loving, and ever lovely Eliza,

YOU will not judge me acting out of charac|ter as your husband, if I disclose some of the tender feelings which have been excited in my breast, during my absence from you▪ whom I have loved with the greatest ferve••••••y from the first moment the kind heavens ever presented you before my eyes. I am afraid that the noise, the prattl••, and jo••ial tricks of the children, will be too much for your tender constitution—mama▪ and not papa, must now be the sole arbiter of all their childish and innocent dissentions. Be pa|tient, my dearest creature, and remember you yourself were once a gay and sp••ightly child. With me time seems to move heavily on; every day appears longer than common, and every night intolerably tedious. My affections will not leave their proper object, to feast on and riot in the enchanting scenes of pleasure, with which I am continually surrounded. Within the peri•••• of three days, I promise myself the inexpressible

pleasure of embracing my dearest Eliza. Tell the prattling things, who constantly surround you, their papa says they must be good and obedient to their mama, and he will bring them something pretty when he returns home. Loveliest of creatures, be not impatient, I will not fail of see|ing you at the time which I have prefixed.

I am your real friend and loving husband, till death. STREPHON.

ELIZA TO STREPHON.

BELIEVE me, dearest Strephon, I never re|ceived a line from you, which administered a thousandth part of the consolation to my anx|ious heart, as that which came safe to hand the last evening. I am tired with this state of widowhood, and pant for another nuptial even|ing with my lovely Strephon. Our children are as good as can be expected—but they are chil|dren and need the authority of a father exercised over them from day to day. Say nothing, dear|est of men, of time's dull pace, nor of the length of particular days and nights, for I have become so great an adapt in the knowledge of this sub|ject, that I fancy you can instruct me in nothing about it. I long for the arrival of that happy moment, when I shall again see my dearest Strephon, whom I love more than every othe•• object this side heaven. May the guardian an|gels protect you from every evil.

I am your everloving ELIZA.

CHAP. III. Of the Courtship of EMILIUS and OLIVA, Ameri|can Youth; together with an account of OLIVA's death.

EMILIUS was a gentleman of taste and information. Oliva was a young lady of good family; possessed of those charms, which at the same time, awe and enrapture the beholder. Her features, shapes and turn of mind, as well as her prospects in life, were exactly such as Emilius wished to find in the lady with whom he chose to match. And though Emilius was several years older than Oliva, he had not completed the knowledge of that profession upon which he had fixed for life. Oliva's youth on the one hand, afforded Emilius time to accomplish this impor|tant business—and on the other, herself time to gain those personal embellishments, which Emi|li••s wished to find in the object of his love. The circumstances of these youth ••••••ing thus situated, Emilius proposed his addresses to Oliva, who, by the approbation of her parents, gave her consent to treat him as a suitor. After enjoying intimate

and frequent interviews with Oliva, for several months on the stretch, Emilius was obliged to reside several hundred miles from the object of his affections. The following letters and historic sketches will display their mutual feelings to|wards each other.

LETTER I. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

June 12, 1771

Charming Oliva,

IT is with pleasure that I inform you, that I am in health, and that I hope you enjoy the same blessing. I am disappointed in journeying to the southward so soon as I expect••d when we parted. However, should no unforeseen accident prevent, I shall set out on the morrow. I need not ••••ll you how much I esteem and love you, and how anxious I am you should obtain all those im|provements of your mind, and embellishments of your person, for which you so vehemently thirst. Intellectual accomplishments, joined with beauty, politeness and virtue, in the fair sex, never fa••l of commanding the attention of m••n of sense; and notwithstanding your present situation is not the most favourable for improvements of this na|ture, I flatter myself you will not fall behind ma|ny who are in pursuit after them.

I am not insensible that many young ladies in this country, who wish to be thought the m••st a••••complished

creatures, have laid aside the sacred oracles, and the numerous authors on virtue and religion, as unfashionable things; and for the improvement of the•••• minds, read little else than novels and plays: This will do for those who mean to form themselves companions agreeable to gentlemen who are determined to live a vici|ous and irreligious life. Nothing would give me more pain, than to find you patterning after these giddy and heedless creatures; you will therefore excuse me while I urge upon you the frequent and careful perusal of those writings which are infallible. Even now, at this late period of the age of the world, there are no volumes so full of important ideas—ideas so entertaining and su|blime, as the scriptures of divine truth. Do you wish to obtain just ideas of the great creator and governor of the universe—here you may find them to perfection. Does your anxious heart en|quire what course of life is most agreeable to the best of beings—here you have it fairly delineated. Do you wish to know the only method of salva|tion—here you have it displayed in all its charms and beauties; yea, in these sacred writings, we have life and immortality brought to light. Pe|ruse them, then, my dearest Oliva, with all that care and attention which is due to the most im|portant writings in the universe: For,

"God's kindest thoughts are here express'd, Able to make us wise and bless'd: The doctrines are divinely true, Fit for reproof and comfort too.

This is the field, where hidden lies The pearl of price unknown; That merchan••is divinely wi••e Who makes the pearl his own

Here consecrated water flows To quench our thirst of sin; Here the fair tree of knowledge grows, Nor danger dwells within"

You may depend on my seeing you at the time prefixed for that purpose, provided no unforeseen accident should prevent.

I am,

dear Oliva,

yours affectionately, EMILIUS.

LETTER II. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

OCTOBER 22, 1771.

Much esteemed Oliva,

IT is with peculiar pleasure I devote this late hour of the night to your service. My thoughts and affections are fixed on you, as the most agree|able object in the whole circle of creation. Had I wings, I would soon fly to your distant apart|ment, and embrace my dearest Oliva, in all the modest forms which love and virtue dictate. In former times my heart never so panted for an in|terview with my dearest creature, as it has done within these six weeks past. You will excuse me if I tell you that it ha•• pleased the God of all grace, to impress my mind with a greater sense of divine things, than I have ever heretofore ex|p••rienced. My heart is fixed: I am no•• de|termined to shape my course for the w•• of

glory. What I most earnestly desire of you, is, that you would accompany me to the paradise above—where immortal youth blooms—love tri|umphs—and every tear is wiped away: Though the road which leads thither, is strait and narrow, yet it deprives us of no pleasures, but such as are beneath the dignity of man—such as are low, vi|cious and diabolical. I am unwilling to leave you walking after the course of this vain world; for I most sincerely love you, and as sincerely pant for your everlasting welfare. Your tempta|tions to vanity and irreligion, I confess are great and powerful: Youth, beauty and worldly pros|pects of happiness here, which you possess above many of your sex, all conspire to work out your ruin: And what renders your situation more dangerous than all the rest, is that circle of con|stant admirers, and subtle flatterers, with which you are perpetually surrounded.

Pause then, a moment, my dearest creature, and set the excellencies of real religion before your eyes; perhaps they may sway your mind to a life of humility and undissembled piety, which is of more value than all this wide world affords. Rude and trifling company is more frequently attended with greater evil•• than young people in general imagine. Be therefore on your guard against the enchanting influence of the bad ex|amples of the young, the beautiful, the gay and fashionable part of the world; otherwise you may be caught in the snare, and led captive at the will of the great enemy of all virtue. Think not, however, that I suppose you can, at all times, with decency, shun such unprofitable company;

it is not at all probable: The part, then, which you have to act, is to guard against its ••ernici|ous effects.

When we parted, I expected to have seen you again this fall; but events respecting me, in a course of providence, have so turned up, that I now despair of doing myself this pleasure. Whe|ther ever we shall see one another again is en|tirely uncertain. Wishing you all that happiness you are capable of enjoying, I beg leave to sub|scribe myself

Your true friend, and unfeigned lover, EMILIUS.

LETTER III. OLIVIA TO EMILIUS.

NOV. 22, 1771.

Sir,

HAD I not given you my word, that after re|ceiving two letters from you I would write you one, I should not have troubled you with this insignificant scrawl. To tell you the truth, Emilius, your affectionate, polite and instructive epistle, have been received with more pleasure than I chuse to express with pen and ink. I cer|tainly feel myself greatly indebted to you for that esteem you have expressed for my person, and that anxiety you have shown both for the im|provement of my mind and the salvation of my 〈◊〉〈◊〉. I imagine no one can be more ••••••sible of

a deficiency in mental improvements, and religi|ous endowments, than I am. Your advice, there|fore, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 read the scriptures with care and atten|tion, and shun the fashionable vices of the present age, perfectly accord with the dictates of my own reason and conscience. Be assured, Sir, I am not wholly insensible of the danger arising from a circle of flatterers: It has been my study what use to make of them; and, upon the whole, I must say, they have been the dangerous means of leading me to prize an open and candid friend more highly than ever I should have done with|out them. I am mortified at the news of your being necessarily detained so long from the com|pany of your best friends. May you be blessed and succeeded in all your enterprizes. Write me as often as inclination and opportunity will permit.

I am your real friend, OLIVA.

LETTER IV. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

DEC. 1, 1771.

My lovely Oliva,

I THANK you for the fulfilment of your prom|ise. Yours of the 22d of Nov. came safe to hand yesterday, and has afforded me more plea|sure than I can express. I will take it for grant|ed that this is a specimen of what you will always

be; that is to say, true to all your engagements. Your assurance that my advice is agreeable to the dictates of your reason and conscience, gives me no small pleasure; for therein I have endea|voured to act the part of a real friend to one for whom I have the highest esteem: While we fol|low the dictates of reason, we shall keep our con|sciences void of offence towards our maker and our fellow men. Your mortification at my being necessarily detained from the company of my best friends, cannot be greater than mine. As soon, therefore, as my important affairs shall permit, I am determined to mingle with that lovely circle of friends who reside in your neighbourhood, and feast my eyes on the charming creature, whom I am afraid has already too much room in my heart. Please to write as you have opportu|nity.

I am,

dear Oliva,

your unfeigned friend and admirer, EMILIUS.

LETTER V. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

APRIL 8, 1772.

Ever lovely Oliva,

I AM never more happy, in any earthly employ|ment, than when I am writing to you; and esp••••ially on so important a subject as the one I am now about to communicate. It has pleased the God 〈…〉〈…〉 ••r out his spirit on the

inhabitants of this town, and to revive his work in the midst of these yea•••• in a most won|derful manner: Young gen••lemen and ladies, who, but a few weeks since, seemed to be given up to every species of error and delusion, are now apparently sincere followers of the Lamb of God: Their vain amusements, and sensual grat|ifications, are laid aside as things quite beneath the dignity of man; and the subline doctrines and duties taught in the gospel are attended to as things of the very last importance. How lovely is the change—how charming is the sight to all the friends of Zion! O Oliva, let the one thing needful have the uppermost room in thy tender heart. What are all earthly enjoyments—what are all the glories of this transitory world, com|pared to the sublime and satisfactory pleasures of real religion? Will not true religion improve your mind—grace your person, and add ten thou|sand beauties to those which you now possess? Will she not give you that peace of conscience and joy of heart which are inexpressible and full of glory? Real religion will fit you for this and for the coming world; she will prepare you to meet with fortitude all the afflictions, and improve all the mercies of this life; and what is more, she will sit you for a state of everlasting glory. O that I were with you, then I could speak of these great things in a manner I cannot write. My heart has been remarkably affected of late.—If religion be a delusion, it is surely a pleasant de|lusion: Therefore you will forgive me, though my letter should appear more lik•• a sermon than ••••ke a ••••re epistle of a common lover—for I

have learned not to be ashamed of the gospel of my Lord and Saviour Ch•• Should my friends judge this to be vile. I hope •• shall be more and more vile, till I have done with th•• transitory world.

My dearest creature, you may depend on my fulfiling all my declarations of love and friend|ship, as far as it shall be in my power. The hap|py moment when I shall see you, I hope is not far off: However, should your affections be weaned from me, and fixed upon another, I hope you will be so generous as not to conceal it from him, who begs leave to subscribe himself

Your real friend and true lover, EMILIUS

LETTER VI. OLIVA TO EMILIUS.

MAY 14, 1772

Sir,

YOUR favour of the 8th of April is just come to hand—which, with no small pleasure, I now set down to answer. The recollection of your friendship, and the heppy moments spent in your agreeable company, never fails of ex••••ting emotions in my heart too tender and delicate to be trusted on pape••. You mention a period, which you suppose not far distant from the time. (in which you w••ite, and call it a happy m••men••••) when you expe•••• we may meet each other. Be

assured, Sir, you cannot contemplate an event of this kind with more pleasure than I do. I most sincerely thank you for the good news you have been pleased to communicate in your last; and heartily wish this great and good work may ex|tend to the ends of the earth. Your anxiety for my best interest, affects my heart, and demands my admiration and gratitude, which shall never be suppressed: O that I too might feel that sacred passion which so sensibly agitates your generous soul! You say▪ that if any one esteems you vile for embracing, and recommending religion to your fellow creatures, you hope you shall be still more and more vile, till you have done with this transitory world. My settled sentiment is, that who|ever despises any one for an attachment to real religion, ought to meet with the contempt of all rational beings.

Sir, Should my affections ever be weaned from you, and six upon any other man, you may rest assured I will not conceal the fact; for I have not forgotten the sacred promises we made to each other when we last parted, that we would not de|ceive one another. Please to neglect no oppor|tunity of writing to

Your much obliged and real friend, OLIVA.

LETTER VII. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

January 15, 1772.

Dear Oliva,

YOURS of May the 14th I have received with sensible pleasure: You could have said noth|ing more captivating concerning me, than that you reflect on the past moments spent in my com|pany with satisfaction, unless it be what you have hinted respecting a future interview. I thank you for that cheerfulness with which you receive and answer my imperfect epistles▪ and am sorry to hear from another quarter, of your bodily in|disposition. ••y dearest creature, did you with|hold this melancholy idea from me because you would not grieve your friend and lover? It is true, I shall be exceedingly anxious till I am fa|voured with further information respecting your health; therefore embrace every opportunity of writing till you shall regain it—which I pray may soon be the case.

Yours, EMILIUS.

LETTER VIII. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

JULY 14, 1772.

Dearest of Girls,

THIS is the third time I have written to you, since I received your obliging letter, dated

May the 14th; and had I not been favoured with a line from your honoured papa, which assured me of the restoration of your health, I should have feared, that your disorder had proved fa|tal; or that I am less dear to you, than you are to me: But now I am freed from these perplex|ing conjectures; especially from the firs••—and with respect to the 〈◊〉〈◊〉, I must ••••y, such has been the confidence I have reposed in your generosi|ty, that it is impossible for me to conclude, that you would willingly deceive me in a matter which lies so near my heart—and which you know is of so much importance to my happiness. You will think me a plain dealer—I am so—and would have you be so likewise: Plain d••••ling and hon|est hearts generally go togethe•• ••d have the greatest tendency to promote those mutual affec|tions which the conjugal state requires: Of all relations in life, this is the most important to the parties concerned, to posterity, and to society in general. Therefore, before we enter into the sweet and sacred bonds of wedlock, we ought to be convinced of each others sincerity. With re|ciprocal and unfeigned love, the matrimonial re|lation must be a blessing; without it, such a con|nection will prove a vexation too great for the parties to endure. The happy pair, who are uni|ted together by mutual esteem, and undissembled love, yield to the sweet bands of matrimony with pleasure: They will ha••e one common interest; and in a sense feel themselves animated by on•• soul. They will readily participate in each oth|ers foils and sorrows, and cheerfully communicate their pleasures and joys to one another▪ Thus

they will march through this vale of ••••ars, adoring their maker for the enjoyment of each other. But I forget I am writing, and not talk|ing, to a young lady, of the happy situation of the married state—whom I know not, but is this mo|ment solacing herself in connubial pleasures with some favoured youth, unknown to me. I will however, write no longer in this strain, for I have no sufficient reason to justify it. A letter written with that lovely hand I used to call mine, will doubtless banish all such imaginations from my anxious mind. But to drop these pleasant topics, and dwell upon those of more importance: Let me ask you, my dearest Oliva, Is it your study and delight to prove yourself devout and sincere|ly religious? 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the laws of your maker, and precepts of your Redeemer, suit your taste, an••|mate your affections, and comfort your spirit? With respect to your maker, can you say whom have I in heaven but thee, and there is none on earth that I desire in comparison to thee. With respect to the Saviour of sinners, can you say, he is the chiefest of ten thousand, he is altogether lovely? O set me a seal on thine arm, as a seal on thine heart, for love is stronger than death! Is the daily language of your heart for God— the living God? If these be the views of your mind, and exercises of your heart, you must be happy beyond expression: On the contrary, if nothing of this nature be sound in you▪ your state must be awfully dangerous! Permit me to close this long letter with the following lines:

"Virtue, soft balm of every woe, Of every grief the cure;

'Tis thou alone that canst bestow, Pleasures unmix'd and pure. The shady wood, the verdant mead Are virtue's flow'ry road; Nor painful are the steps which lead To her divine abode. 'Tis not in palaces or halls, She, or her train appears; Far off she flies from pompous walls, Virtue and peace dwell 〈◊〉〈◊〉."

I am,

dear Oliva,

yours, &c. EMILIUS.

LETTER IX. OLIVA TO EMILIUS.

August 1, 1772.

Sir,

YOUR long and entertaining letter of the 14th of the last month, I have received with pe|culiar pleasure; and now embrace the first mo|ment which presents, to make out some kind of answer to it. I heartily wish I could compose with that freedom and elegancy you do▪ then would I give you a long answer; but I must be content to communicate my ideas in a clumsy and inel|egant style. Pardon my imperfections, and you will secure my heart. I am heartily rejoiced my honoured papa has been so good as to inform you of my welfare. I have written and thrown away several letters since my sickness; the reason of this conduct has been altogether owing to my

want of opportunity to convey them to you; and it is entirely uncertain whether this ever reaches you; therefore you will accept of a short and imperfect answer. Be assured, that it is with no small pleasure, that I find myself able to inform you that my health is perfectly restored. Oh how thankful ought I to be to the great disposer of all events, for this display of his goodness and mercy to an unworthy wretch. Many, many of my fellow mortals have been cut down as cum|bers of the earth, and lodged in the silent grave, since I was first seized with my late bodily indis|position. O Emilius! help me to praise the great preserver of man, for his distinguishing goodness to an unworthy and helpless creature. With re|spect to the ••••lemn and pointed questions you have asked 〈◊〉〈◊〉 concerning my love to religion— all I have to say is, my reason and conscience tell me I ought 〈◊〉〈◊〉 be able to answer them in the affirmative—But alas, my wretched heart stands in the way. One thing, however, you may de|pend upon as fact; and that is, I have never had more serious thoughts on the great and important things of real religion, than I have had during my late sickness: And to tell you the truth, your pious letter has largely contributed to increase these solemn impressions on my naturally vain and trifling mind; but I am afraid they will soon wear away, and leave me worse than they found me. Oh the wretched influence of this vain and unsatisfactory world! How powerfully it allure•• our imaginations, and commands our affections. O Emilius, on these accounts I should be more happy to see you, than ever I have been h••reto|fore.

In the midst of your rapturous description of the happiness of the married pair, you check yourself for thus writing to one, whom you knew not but was then solacing herself in the embraces of some favoured and unknown youth: Give yourself no concern, Sir, about any such imagi|nations; and believe me incapable of acting a part so base, so contrary to my most solemn in|gagements to you. The following lines appear to me very beautiful:

"Be wise, cut off long cares From thy contracted span. E'en whilst we speak, envious time Doth make swift haste away; Then seize the present, use thy prime, Nor trust another day."

My parents enjoy their usual health; Anna and Charlotte are well, and as w•• ever: Your friends in general, in this town, are all in pros|perous circumstances. Wishing you every bless|ing you are capable of enjoying in this and the coming world, I beg leave to say

I am your friend and most humble servant, OLIVA.

UPON the reception of the above letter, Emilius concluded to drop his important and delightful studies, and spend a few weeks with his enchanting Oliva, from whom he had endured an absence so long and painful. At their meeting, their mutual joys were expressed, not by the cold and lifeless language, which mere words compose—but by sparkling eyes, glowing countenances, and actions the most polite and endear|ing.

The pious and dignified conduct of Emilius, on this occasion, was too perspicuous to pass unno|ticed by the honoured parents of Oliva, who now be|gan to feel themselves happy in their daughter••s con|nection with a gentleman of so much worth: Every thing, of course, conspired to render them as happy in each others company as they could reasonably wish. Their circumstances, persons, amusements and devo|tions, were such as mutually and constantly charmed each other, as well as entertained and delighted a numerous circle of friends and relatives: Every one who beheld their chaste, polite and dignified conduct, admired—and some even envied their hap|piness. In circumstances so delightful, the time al|loted by Emilius for this visit rolled away imper|ceptibly, and th•• melancholly moment too soon arrived when he was ••ed to take his leave of the idol of his heart, and repair to his books, to complete his knowledge of the profession which he had chosen for life.—This was a scene too tender for description: We shall therefore give the reader liberty to indulge his imagination, and pursue the correspondence which afterward took place between these happy lovers.

LETTER X. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

SEPT. 29, 1772.

Much respected and dear Oliva,

I AM always happy when your friendship is the subject of my contemplation. If I am not mistaking the idea, mutual friendship consists in

a strong and habitual inclination, in two or more persons, to promote each othe•••• welfare, here an•• hereafter; consequently persons, united by the sacred bonds of friendship▪ in a measure rejoice in each others welfare, a•• they do in their own. When I reflect upon myself as standing in this ••••lation to you▪ I am both ple••sed and charmed with my situation—when I go •• step further, and consider myself as your approved suitor, I wa•••• language to express the emotions of my heart. One hour spent in your company, gives me more pleasure than years spent in the company of oth|ers.

Please to make my respectful compliments to your honoured and dear parents—and tell them that Emilius arrived safe at the ••ce of his resi|dence last Friday.

Dear Oliva, Let not youthful amusements so take up your time and affections, as to leave no room for the all important things of real religion. I mean to write by every opportunity, and hope you will do the same.

The following lines were composed in an hour devoted to your service:

The olive branch, the blooming maid, Has charm'd my heart, and fill'd my head Be thou, my dear, forever true, And constant love shall be thy due.

As pearly drops, as virgin snow, From lofty clouds in season flow, So let thy path, in virtuous ways, In truth shine forth, with pearless rays.

O, let ev'ry grace in their turn, In thy dear soul awake and burn;

Against the snares of Satan bold, Thy virtue guard, thy vows uphold;

Adorn thy heart, adorn thy mind, With knowledge of the purest kind: Be this thy carry 〈◊〉〈◊〉 work of life. And you may prove a joyful wife.

I am,

dear Oliva,

your unfeigned friend and true louer, EMILIUS.

LETTER XI. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

OCT. 21, 1772.

My worthy dear Oliva,

AS I make it a point of no small importance to let no suitable opportunity pass without writing to you, so I would thank you to conduct towards me. This attention to each other, i•• what we have laid ourselves under mutual obli|gations to perform. Every letter received from you is esteemed by me as a fresh evidence of your friendship; and I would have you esteem every letter you receive from me, not only as a token of friendship, but of real love. Of your friendship, I have looked for more frequent tes|timonies of this kind than I have received; and sometimes have been almost r••ady to conclude, that my sweetest creature is not so a••••entive to her engagements as she ought to be: the•• I check myself and fondly attribute her neglect to

the want of suitable conveyance, rather than to any want of inclination to gratify her friend and lover. Be so kind as to free me from these per|plexing thoughts, by a long letter filled with your sentiments upon the most important subject—I mean religion. Say not that religion is an un|fashionable subject for the pens of youth and lovers—for it certainly lies near my heart, and I hope is not far from yours. I have not forgot|ten the happy moments we spent, when last to|gether, on the excellenc••es of this dignified and sublime theme—and hope your memory retains the same things we then caused to pass before our minds. I know that young people, especial|ly lovers, must be indulged in dwelling on the charming subjects of beauty, frien••ship and love; but this is no reason they should not embrace re|ligion, and frequently write to each other upon its divine and superlative beauties: for without this one thing needful all other possessions are nothing, less than nothing, and vanity. Young minds are too apt to imbibe unfavourable ideas of this glorious subject: they are too apt to con|clude that religion will mar•• all their pleasures, and render themselves undesirable objects of the love and esteem of the most valuable youth in the land: but remember this is not only far from the truth, but an insinuation of the great enemy of all righteousness, who always strives to paint those ways which are ways of peace, and those paths which are paths of pleasantness, as too rug|ged and thorny for the tender feet of the young and beautiful▪ Reflecting upon our first moth|er's decep••ion by this great enemy of all righte|ousnes••—

Fly from the false deceivers tongue▪ My dear Oliva fly; Our parents found the snare to strong, Nor should the children try.

But to drop this, and pass to a subject more cheerful.—In the midst of that large acquain|tance which I have had with mankind, I have found it expedient that my peculiar friends should be but few, and well chosen. I have sought to associate with those only who were po|lite, decent, sensible and virtuous. By this mean I have been often screened from that imprudent and vicious course of conduct, which otherwise I should probably have adopted; and perhaps brought upon myself disgrace, if not ruin.

It is my serio•••• opinion, that young people in general, in no way expose themselves so much, as by keeping company with beautiful young, heed|less and vicious youth. This proves beyond all contradiction, that our intimate and peculiar friends ought to be few and well chosen. There are several kinds of amusement peculiar to youth, which, though they are not always criminal, are notwithstanding very inconvenient: These I have frequently pointed out to you in days past: I will now content myself with mentioning one fol|ly, too frequent among youth, which I have not heretofore laid before you: It is this—For a la|dy to suffer several gentlemen to share her pecu|liar attention in close succession one after another: Or a gentleman to divide his affections and at|tentions among several of the fair sex. This shameful and disingenious practice has a tenden|cy to ruin one's heart, and prevent it for ever

fixing on a single object in that manner which is convenient for the consugal relation. It is no less an argument of wisdom to di••tinguish between proper and improper conduct, than an argument of virtue to reject the former and adopt the lat|ter. The study of prudence is worthy of every young mind; and always pays double wages to those who exercise themselves in this way. I have ten thousand things to tell you, when kind Providence shall indulge us with another six weeks visit; for believe me, when I say,

As well might solid mountains move, As distance quench the fire of love. Thoughts instant dart from pole to pole, And agitate the tender soul.

How oft I clasp my dear in arms! How oft I'm wrapt in female charms! Then kindest thou•• has possess my soul, And my Oliva I condole.

"What may for strength with steel compare? O love has fetters stronger far. By bolts of steel are limbs confin'd; But cruel love enchains the mind."

A thousand times in one sad day My thoughts to Bethlem wing their way; For what—I leave for you to say.

I am,

dear Oliva,

your lover, EMILIUS.

LETTER XII. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

November 17, 1772.

Dearest of Girls,

THE perplexing thoughts and foreboding fears which constantly occupy my breast con|cerning

you, are too great and numerous to be expressed in a single letter. I have from no quarter received the least hint of your welfare since we parted. Sometimes I paint to my dis|ordered imagination, that numerous circle of friends, admirers, flatterers and lovers in which you stand; and say, the glare of these have hid|den Emilius from the lovely eyes of Oliva: Sure|ly Oliva has forgotten her real friend, her un|feigned lover.—At other times, I am ready to con|clude she is married; and of course bidden an eternal farewel to Emilius. But no conjecture touches my heart more forcibly than that which whispers in my ear, surely Oliva is no more, or you would have heard from her before now. My only relief from these anxious and perplexing thoughts, is the recollection of your modest•• in writing, and the difficulty of conveying with safe|ty what you have written to me. Be so kind, if in the land of the living, to free me from this dis|tress, by the first opportunity, though your letter should contain only ten lines.

I am,

dear Oliva,

your constant and fervent lover, EMILIUS.

P. S. The following lines were presented to my troubled imagination, last evening, when half asleep.

YE guardian Angels, hover roundThat lovely spot of sacred ground;Where my Oliva, panting lies,And bear her spirit to the skies.

You will forgive the impropriety of these lines: They are communicated for no other reason, than

to impress it on your mind, how much I am troub|led concerning you.

Dearest creature, adieu.

LETTER XIII. OLIVA TO EMILIUS.

DEC. 22, 1772.

Much respected Sir,

I JOYFULLY acknowledge the receipt of three letters from you—two of them are long, and one is but short—for which I give you many ••ks. Your sentiments of friendship meet with my most cordial approbation; and your professed esteem for my person merits my notice and grat|itude.

It has been with some degree of confusion, I have made your compliments to my parents. I wish for the future, you would excuse me from a task so trying to my nerves. Your advice, to be so much on my guard against the pernicious in|fluence of youthful amusements, as to leave room in my heart for pious and devotional exercises, demands my unfeigned gratitude. The lines of poetry, with which you conclude this letter, are really charming; and indeed the whole letter is high in my estimation, except it be the last line— "And you may prove a joyful wife." Wife is more than a mouthful; it is with some dif|ficulty I write it—and you may be sure it will be

with more that I shall ever learn to speak it. I thank you for the charming things which you have written on friendship, fidelity, love and re|ligion, which glow throughout your letter of Oc|tober 21, and heartily wish them all ingrafted on that little stock of knowledge I have already ob|tained; I think they would enlarge my mind, and swell my too contracted soul. Be assured, Sir, of my endeavours to make daily improvements in these most excellent and desirable things. The poetry, with which you conclude this letter, has charmed me more than any thing of the kind I ever received from you—

"A thousand times▪ in one sad day, My thoughts to Bethlem wing their way; For what—I leave for you to say."

I am glad you did not say write, for I 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ra|ther say ten things than write one.

Your last letter really frights me.—I 〈…〉〈…〉 that much learning is about to make you 〈◊〉〈◊〉; and seriously wish you would drop your studies, and spend another six weeks at the old mansion-house: This might settle your head—••r ••te your thoughts, and prepare you for a clo•• ••p|plication to your books, than you now seem to be capable of: However, whether you are so|ber, or beside yourself, I am pleased with your solicitude for my welfare, and set it down as an incontestible evidence of your sincere love for my person; therefore forgive my innocent, tho' perhaps too bold remarks on your anxiety for your friend. I wish any thing could tempt you to leave your books, and converse a while with your friends. My parents, within my hearing,

frequently say, What is become of Emilius? O|liva, have you heard of late any thing of him? For my part, I generally say nothing; but An|na, looking yare, and smiling, answers yes, she receives letters from him every fortnight: That's more than you know, my dear, I generally re|ply, and so the conversation ends.

I think the following lines worthy of notice— perhaps you have never met with them.

"FRIENDSHIP—peculiar boon of heav'n, The noble mind's delight and pride; To men and angels only giv'n: To all the lower world deny'd.

While love, unknown among the beasts, Parent of thousand wield desires, The savage and the human breast, Torments alike with raging fires:

With bright, but oft destructive gleam, Alike o'er all, his lightning fly, Thy lambent glories only beam Around the fav'rites of the sky.

Thy gentle glows of guiltless joys On fools and villains ne'er descend; In vain for thee, the tyrant sighs, And hugs a flatt'rer for a friend.

Directress of the brave and just, O guide us through life's darksome way; And let the tortures of mistrust On selfish bosoms only prey.

Nor shall thine ardours cease to glow, When souls to blissful climes remove; What rais'd our virtue here below, Shall aid our happiness above."

Dear Sir,

with every sentiment of unfeigned friendship, I am yours, OLIVA.

LETTER XIV. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

JAN. 1, 1773.

Dearest Oliva,

I WISH you a happy new year. It has been with a pleasure too great for words to express, that I have received your endearing favour of the 22d of December: Believe me, kindest of creatures, this epistle has reduced my troubled imagination to order, and my anxious heart to calmness and tranquility, and without flattery, merits my thanks ten thousand times over. I am greatly pleased that my sentiments on friend|ship, love and religion, have found so cor••••••l a reception with you; and do not find i•• 〈…〉〈…〉 to resent your satyrising my last letter, 〈…〉〈…〉 it was a just representation of existing ••na|tions, circumstances and feelings, yet it bear•• the marks of the hypo, which you know is not a•• uncommon disorder with gentlemen of a s••den|tary life. I had heard nothing from you 〈◊〉〈◊〉, that my anxious heart had got full of ten ••••ou|sand distressing conjectures; but thanks to kind providence, I am now at ease. Your declara|tion, that my letters are received with pleasure, gives me no small satisfaction, for I know not a single creature within the whole circle of crea|tion, that I should more wish to please than my ever lovely Oliva. Please still to give my let|ters a favourable reception, till the period shall arrive, when we shall meet and embrace each

other, not barely as friends, but as unfeigned lov|ers. You kindly intimate▪ that another six week's visit, at your papa's, would meet with the appro|bation of a numerous circle of friends, and prove advantageous to myself.—I am much of your way of thinking, and will as soon as existing circum|stances shall admit, do myself the pleasure to comply with your proposal; for, depend upon it, you share a too large proportion of my thoughts and affections, not to command my utmost atten|tion. However, I must check my fond expec|tations—knowing there are ten thousand acci|dents and misfortunes which may prevent our ever meeting again.—Death, that enemy to all our earthly enjoyments, may, before we are a|ware, snatch you from me, or me from you. Let us then prepare for every event which awaits us in 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and disappointments will prove less dread|ful ••en they overtake us. I thank you for mak|ing my compliments to your parents; but as this sho••ks your tender nerves▪ I will not again request such a favour of you, till I have some evidence of their being strengthened. Give my love to M•• Anna—this will not disturb your tender feel|ings. Oliva, I am charmed with that rapid im|provement you have made within the last six months, in your hand writing, and in composi|tion.—An improvement in these particulars is an advantage which attends friends and lovers resid|ing at a distance from each other.—You will not think it strange if I urge you on in this com|mendable course; for you know, from your first acqu••••ntance with me, that it has been a matter which has lain near my heart Should you ask

why I interest myself so much in your making progress in these improvements, my answer is, because I love you. A few months spent at a boarding school in the metropolis of your State, might be attended with happy effects.—In such a case▪ you would be under advantage, not only to make literary improvements, but to see the mode•• and fashions of those who, by education, are raised above the common classes of men. Your English grammar, geography, poets and historians, should always be within your reach— and your Bible esteemed above all other books.

ON BEAUTY.

"Victorious beauty▪ by what potent charm, Dost thou the soul of all its force disarm? We bless our chains, abhor our liberty, And yield the uncontested prize to thee. Whether we rash or calm designs pursue, Thine is the glorious motive still in view: For thee we search the wide creation round; But thou art no where in perfection found: Some blemish still remains on mortal pride, And crowding years its airy boasts deride. Triumphant beauty fits Oliva's eyes On fire—I gaze, the trembling lustre dies. Thou lovely, fleeting, transitory thing, From what immense perfection dost thou spring?"

I am,

dear Oliva,

your most obedient and humble servant, EMILIUS.

LETTER XV. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

March 18, 1773.

My love,

THAT you may not think my attention to you is abated, I have enclosed several let|ters to you which were written some time since, but not sent for want of suitable conveyance; be so kind as to give them all an answer in your next. I have ten thousand things in my head, which I could better tell you than write, were I in your agreeable company. Perhaps you may think my affections for you are greatly cooled— or I should have otherwise visited you before now.—Believe me, dearest of creatures, could I do myself this honour without making a sacrifice greater than you would wish me to do, I would be upon the wing immediately for B—m: however, I have fixed on the month of July next for this purpose. In the mean time, I shall let no opportunity of writing pass unimproved, in furnishing you with all that information re|specting my person and circumstances, which you can desire—and beg you not only to adopt, but to persevere in the same line of conduct towards me.

I enjoy my health to a very great degree, and in many respects am exceedingly happy; there being nothing which troubles me much, except it be the want of my dearest Oliva's company. In my ••a•••• you were entertained with several re|marks on the improvement of your already im|proved

mind. I would now observe, that it is a matter of importance, that those who are both a|ble and inclined to make a shining figure in life, should be under all the advantages of improv|ment—while it is of no consequence to those who are of a different make and turn of mind: for let their advantages for improvement be what they may, they will never mak•• any considera|ble progress in knowledge. •• young lady of beauty, genius and fortune, should be careful to lay hold ••f every mean to improve her mind, polish her manners, and set off her person with dignity and grace; otherwise she will do herself great dishonour in the view of persons of sense and r••finement—for she had it in her power to make a shining figure among the upper classes of the human species, but through negligence falls far below what nature intended for her. A per|son of a beautiful form, destitute of an improved mind—of a gr••••t fortune, destitute of a polite, virtuous and dignified carriage, is an object which never fails of exciting compassion, min|gled with c••ntempt. Think not, my dearest Oliva, that I am pointing at you; I know the charms of your beautiful person, and I can also add, I have 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the charms of your more beauti|ful mind. What I am aiming 〈◊〉〈◊〉▪ is to urge you to add be•••••••• to beauty, and one improvement to another, till y••••r charms shall be acknowledg|ed irresistible by 〈◊〉〈◊〉 wh•• cast their eyes upon you.

I am,

lovely Oliva

you•• true f••iend and unfeigned lover, till death, EMILIUS.

LETTER XVI. OLIVA TO EMILIUS.

April 9, 1773.

Sir, my friend,

IT is with more pleasing emotions of heart, than I will undertake to express, that I now inform you of the welcome reception of two en|dearing and instructive letters—the one dated January 1, 1773; in which you are so kind as to wish me an happy new year—and the other dated March 18.

I can never be thankful enough for that un|wearied and generous pains you have so long taken to render my person, mind and carriage, agreeable to men of taste, virtue and refinement; as well as for that concern you have exhibited for my happiness beyond this transitory state: these things I shall set down as real tokens of friendship. Be assured, my worthy Emilius, you are not dealing with an ungrateful girl. I have for more than eighteen months, carefully attend|ed to those improvements, which you have so earnestly recommended; and I hope I have not been altogether unmindful of the one thing, which above all others, is needful.

I sincerely thank you for those lines on beauty; and think the sentiments are just, and the diction elegant; and should have been perfectly pleased with the whole, had one word only been omitted —but I will say no more, for I am determined

never to quarrel with you. I rejoice you have fixed on a time to be at B—m.

Your real friend and most humble servant, OLIVA.

LETTER XVII. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

April 21, 1773.

Ever lovely Oliva,

I ESTEEM every letter, with which you are pleased to favour me, as a fresh proof of your love and fidelity; your last, however, has charm|ed me more than all the rest;—it breathes such a spirit of innocency, gratitude, dignity and love, that I am overcome with its influence. Mr. S—g, by whom I received it, tells me, I must make a visit to B—m soon, or grieve some of my best friends: Please to tell them I have not forgotten them, and will fulfil my engagements at the time prefixed. I have nothing new to tell you respect|ing myself, or yourself.

THE LIBERTINE REPULSED.

HENCE Belmour, perfidious! this instant retire, No further entreaties employ, Nor meanly pretend any more to admire, What barely you wish to destroy.

Say, youth, must I madly rush on upon shame, I•• a traitor but artfully sighs! And eternally part with my honour and fame For a compliment p••••d to my eyes?

If a flame all dishonest be vilely profest, Through tenderness must I incline, And seek to indulge the repose of a breast, That would plant endless tortures in mine!

No, villain—a passion I can't but despise, Shall never find way to my ears; Nor the man meet a glance of regard from these eyes, That would drench them forever in tears.

Can the lover who thinks; nay, who wishes me base, Expect that I e'er should be kind? Or atone with a paltry address to my face, For the injury done to my mind?

Hence, Belmour, this instant, and cease ev'ry dream, Which your hope saw so foolishly born; Nor vainly imagine to gain my esteem By deserving my hate and my scorn.

O Oliva, how dignified and charming is the spirit which glows through the above lines? Oth|er things being equal, such a lady, above all oth|ers, would captivate my heart, and command my reverence and admiration. May the libertines of our day, in all their attempts upon the fair and virtuous, meet with repulses of this kind, till their hardened souls, tormented with remorse, shall be brought to unfeigned repentance.

I am,

dearest Oliva,

your friend and lover till death, EMILIUS.

LETTER XVIII. OLIVA TO EMILIUS.

JULY 12, 1773.

Sir,

YOURS of the 21st of April came to hand yes|terday; and my heart bids me to answer it as soon as possible. I will not be disobedient to the sacred impulse. I cannot think how Mr. S—g came to interest himself in a subject so near my heart. I am sure he must be a man of sensibility and discernment, or he never would have talked in the manner you have represented; for I have never exchanged a word with him on our affairs. He surely is in the right now, what|ever he may be at other times. I thank you for the kind things you have been pleased to say of my last letter; and likewise for the piece you style, "The Libertine Repulsed." The spirit which breathes through this excellent composition can|not charm you more than it does me. Your friends are now looking for you every hour in the day.

May the kind angels hover round That chosen spot of sacred ground▪ Where you are fond of dwelling, And fill your soul with tender feeling

For,

dear Sir,

your friend and most humble OLIVA.

A LITTLE after the date of the foregoing letter, the happy Emilius and lovely Oliva, enjoyed the plea|sure of several weeks interview with each other. Their joys on this occasion were b••tter expressed, by the glows of their countenances, the sparkling of their eyes, and their polite and endearing behaviour to each other, than pen and ink could do were they in the hand of an angel. They had been loving each other at several hundred miles distance, for more than ten months, without the sight of one anothers faces; during which period, their persons and minds had received many embellishments which served to heighten their mutual esteem; and now they had an opportunity of feasting their eyes and hearts on each others personal beauties and mental accomplishments, which they did with transports too great to escape the notice of a numerous circle of friends and relatives.

The fond hearts of Oliva••s parents were now ex|panded with generosity and benevolence; they were likewise relieved of ten thousand anxious thoughts re|specting their daughter, who for several months be|fore, seemed to take no pleasure in any company of any kind. The old mansion house became the resort of the most polite and improving company in the town. The happy lovers felt themselves standing at the next door to the summit of all earthly joys. The modes of entertainments, diversions and improvements adopted on this occasion, were such only as wisdom and virtue dictated. Thus Emilius and Oliva enjoyed each oth|ers company for more than six weeks together; dur|ing which time, they gained all that satisfaction with respect to the affections of each other they could wish; and consequently entered into a most solemn engage|ment to mar••y as soon as the circumstances of Emili|us

would permit. In circumstances so agreeable the time alloted for the performance of this v•• passed away insensibly, both to Emilius and Oliva. How|ever, when the period fixed on for their separation was come, these happy lovers, with glowing hearts, clasping hands and flowing tears, commended each other to the care of a kind and tender providence, and parted. We shall now leave them to their own reflections, and pursue their literary correspondence, which closed their coartship.

LETTER XIX. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

August 29, 1773.

Ever charming and ever lovely Oliva,

IT is with a pleasure which none but your Emil|ius can enjoy, that I reflect upon the happy moments, hours, days and weeks, lately spent with you and your friends: And notwithstand|ing true lovers are extremely apt to behave them|selves so fond of each other as to render them|selves ridiculous in the eyes of wise and good judges, I have the consolation to think we have steered clear of any just censure of this kind. However, true love will, and must have its natu|ral course; and one may as well hide the glow|ings of the natural sun, as to hide it from the penetrating eyes which surround us on certain oc|casions.

I am unhappily detained here by reason of my horse's lameness. All my brothers and sist|ers are well. I have unexpectedly met with one sister here, the two first letters of whose name are exactly what I expect yours will be ere long.— She is a pretty girl: I wish you and she might have an interview with each other. Your uncle G—y and family are in health. I know not what to say more, unless I should enter upon those en|chanting themes we had over so often when at your papa's.

I am your lover, EMILIUS.

LETTER XX. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

SEPT. 11, 1773.

Dear Oliva,

LAST evening, about nine o'clock, I arrived at the seat of the muses; where I spend my time with more pleasure than I can do in any other part of this lower world, unless it be at B—m, in the company of my dearest Oliva. I am, however, not so well as common: riding a whole day in the rain, has occasioned a great cold, which by some means or other, I find it difficult to throw off. Believe me, my dearest creature, I can put you in mind of nothing of more importance, than your obligations to de|vote

yourself to the great God. If you have not real religion, when you are called hence, you must be a wretch undone. O think of it seri|ously. I expect you will soon send me a long and entertaining letter, to make up for the time you have neglected writing to your Emilius. We must not—we cannot forget each other; for

LOVE studies how to please—improves our parts With polish'd manners—it adorns with arts. Love's an heroic passion, which can find No room in a base degen'rate mind.

It kindles all the soul with lambent fire, And fills the heart with strong, with true desire. Love, various minds with various things inspire; It stirs in gentle natures gentle fire—

Like that of incense on the altar laid, While raging flames tempestuous souls invade. The fire which ev'ry passion blows Mounts up with pride, and raging glows.

May our love prove to be of that virtuous, gentle and lasting kind, which is described in the first nine lines of the above piece.

I am,

dear Oliva,

your sincere lover till death, EMILIUS.

LETTER XXI. OLIVA TO EMILIUS.

Sept. 18, 1773.

Sir,

IT is with more joy than I can express, that I acknowledge the receipt of two excellent let+ters

from you since we parted; and with open arms embrace the first opportunity (which is by Mr. Davenport) to answer them.

O Emilius, what can be the reason I am har|rassed night and day, awake or asleep, with the most distressing imagination, that I shall never see you again? I am grieved almost to death; and what renders my situation most shocking, is, I have not a friend on earth, beside yourself, to whom I dare unbosom my heart. O pity me, and pray for me, my dearest friend. Were it not for fear of frightening you with the idea that I am actually distracted, I should most earnestly desire you immediately to return to B—m. I am grieved to hear that you are unwell, on seve|ral accounts; one is because it has encreased my heart-felt distress for you. Whether you or I shall fal•• a victim to sudden death, I know not; and were it in my power, I know not which I should chuse—for either would ruin me forever: However, one of the two, I am persuaded, will soon take place. Think not that I have the spleen: I am as well as common; and should be cheerful were it not for these distressing appre|hensions concerning you. I am really in earnest, and shall have no peace till I hear from you. My parents, with all your friends in this town, are in health. I have nothing more to say▪ un|less it be to assure you, that I am with all that sincerity I am capable of,

Your distressed and unfeigned friend, OLIVA.

N. B. The lines on love, in your last letter, are very descriptive of that noble passion; and

you will forgive me, Emilius, if I add, let all our actions towards each other forever hereafter be expressions of this divine flame: Then our mu|tual engagements will be fulfilled, our honour supported, and our consciences kept unviolated.

LETTER XXII. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

Dec. 4, 1773.

Dear Oliva,

I HAVE had the pleasure of seeing Mr. P—m, who lately came from B—m; and who, in his blunt way of talking, tells me that my sweet|heart is unwell. I asked him what he meant— He answered, Miss Oliva is pining, and▪ I be|lieve, unwell; and this was all I could get out of the philosopher on this subject, except that you looked unwell. I then told him, if you in fact were unwell, I should have supposed you would have written me on the subject, which you had not done. He answered, delicate ladies are not apt to communicate all their feelings to their suitors. Upon the whole, he talked with me till I heartily wished myself at B—m—where I might judge of the health of my dearest friend. Believe me, my love to you is sincere, and I have not a doubt but yours to me is the same; there|fore, depend on my fidelity, in every thing which I have said to you. I am this moment, agree|ably interrupted, by the reception of your letter, dated Sept. 28; and am truly surprized at its

contents. What the meaning of your uneasiness is I cannot tell. You say you enjoy a good state of health; and I am sure I never enjoyed a bet|ter in all my life. Be not discouraged my dear|est creature: I hope your fears will prove to be the effects of mere imagination, and not the fore|bodings of so great a calamity as the death of ei|ther of us. Let us commit ourselves to the great disposer of all things, who constantly regulates all events in the most desirable and best manner. Your wish, that all our future actions towards each other may be the expressions of genuine and mutual love, meets with my highest appro|bation: For I know this is the only way to fulfil our most solemn vows—maintain our honour, and preserve our consciences pure before the searcher of all hearts.

Dear Oliva,

I am your unfeigned and faithful lover till death, EMILIUS.

LETTER XXIII. OLIVA TO EMILIUS.

JAN. 1, 1774.

Sir,

AFTER wishing you a happy New Year, you will permit me to assure you, that it was with a pleasure too great for words to express I re|ceived your letter of the 4th of December, which

informed me of your reception of mine of the 28th of September. When I reflect on the con|tents of these letters, I feel for myself—I also feel for you. What in the course of Providence is about to take place I know not. One thing is certain, I have not endured so much anxiety in all my life, as I have felt since we parted. But since you tell me you are well, and I know I am, I will try to lay aside these imaginations, and act the part of the philosopher. Though it be not long to the time you have prefixed to see me, I must beg you to write as frequently as possible, that I may be wholly freed from those distressing apprehensions which have almost destroyed my natural cheerfulness.

Believe me,

Emilius

,

I am forever thine, OLIVA.

LETTER XXIV. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

March 2, 1774.

Dearest of Girls,

I HAVE received your agreeable letter, dated January 1, 1774, with all that pleasure, which its peculiar circumstances could not fail of pro|ducing. I most heartily thank you for wishing me a happy new year; and hope it will be crowned with those nuptial joys I have so long

contemplated. This depends, however, on your inclination. Your anxiety concerning my wel|fare most sensibly affects my heart. I am glad to hear your resolution to act the part of the phi|losopher. I will now inform you of an impor|tant event; of which you have probably not heard: About four weeks since, I took the small-pox by inoculation: and have got through with it very easily: I was confined to my bed only three days. Of this event I should have inform|ed you before now, had it not been for fear of giving you unnecessary pain. I wish you had been with me, and had got as well over this dis|order as I have done: Don't fear of taking it from this letter, for I can assure you there is not the least danger of it.

I expect you have not received several of my letters, written within these two months past, be|cause you make no mention of their contents. I wrote you a long serious letter, in which I have, as far as words can do, expressed my whole soul. If you have received it already, or do hereafter receive it, be so kind as to give it a particular answer, and you will lay your friend and humble admirer under fresh obligations of gratitude.

EMILIUS.

LETTER XXV. OLIVA TO EMILIUS.

MAY 15, 1774.

Sir,

YOURS of March, 1774, I have this moment received; and heartily return you many thanks for its contents. Your remarks on the important event which you wish may crown the present year, perfectly accord with my feelings. But this is almost too much to say to a gentle|man; however it is said and shall not be recall|ed: my solemn vow to you, Sir, shall be my apol|ogy. I have not received your long letter in which you say you have told me all your heart; and therefore must beg you to write another for this purpose, and I will give it a particular ans|wer▪ Your friend and my near relative, Mr. Eli|jah G—y, lost one of his legs, last March; it was occasioned by a wound, which mortified, and of course called for amputation, as the only mean of preserving his life. I have one piece of news more to tell you—my grand mama has been lately married to the Rev. Mr. C—s. What such aged people mean by marrying, is beyond my knowledge.

I am heartily rejoiced to hear you got through the small-pox safely; and am much obliged to you for your tenderness to me, in concealing this affair till you had quite recovered your health; for my mind has been so agitated with fearful apprehensions concerning your welfare, when I knew not but you were well, that I know not what would have been the consequence, had I

been told you were sick with this dreadful dis|order. My distress has in a great degree subsid|ed, and my mind is now calm, and my natural cheerfulness greatly revived.

Be so kind as to accept the following lines of poetry, as an evidence of my sincerity, in this de|claration.

The beauties of the blooming spring, Fresh to my mind Emilius bring; The flowers which give a fragrant smell, Do emulate his virtues well.

The warbling songsters of the grove, Chaunt forth melodious notes of love; All nature smiles with prospects gay, And joys refin'd salute each day.

But the soft pleasures of the spring, Trouble, as well as rapture bring; When greater joys are wanting still, Then discontent the mind must fill.

Not all the good that earth bestows, Can satisfy the mind that glows With gen'rous love; while absence frowns, Our hearts must bleed with deadly woun••s.

I am

Emilius,

yours affectionately, OLIVA.

LETTER XXVI. EMILIUS TO OLIVA.

MAY 30, 1774.

Ever dear and charming Oliva,

YOURS of May the 15th is this moment come to hand. I thank you for the several pieces

of news you have been pleased to give me; and heartily sympathize with my friend in the loss of his leg. Old people who have been once mar|ried, can better tell what they mean by second marriages, than young one's—I will therefore let them alone. Your poetical flight would not have met with my approbation, had it not been accom|panied with that most solemn declaration in the beginning of your letter, that my wishes concern|ing the crowning of the year, perfectly accord with your feelings. I am glad you have recover|ed that natural cheerfulness, which is so peculiar to yourself; and wish you may never lose it a|gain; for it must be a continual feast—this I can say by experience. I know what it is to be cheerful, and within these three weeks past I have felt what it is to be melancholy. Sometime since you were in this situation; now I am taking my turn. I could not before sympathize with you as I can now; what the reason is, I can give no ac|count: but one thing is certain, I have no com+fort of my life. My mind is so agitated with anxious thoughts, and perplexing fears, by night and by day, concerning you, that I get no rest. I am afraid we are never to see one another a+gain; and that one or both of us, must soo•• launch into a boundless eternity! How solemn is the thought! The period on which we have fixed to consummate our joys, is only six weeks from the present moment. A thousand times since I saw you, I have looked forward to tha•• ••ra, with raptures too great for description—bu•• ••as! my feelings now tell me, we shall never be|hold

one another again. Even while I write, my heart bleeds, my tears flow, my very soul trembles! How vain is this transitory world; how uncertain are all earthly enjoyments! Our affec|tions have been mutual and sincere—by many circumstances almost peculiar to ourselves, they have been tried and proved genuine. I thank you for all that unseigned friendship and gener|ous love you have exercised towards me for sev|eral years past. Thus, agreeable to your request, and my solemn promise, I have disclosed to you the feelings of my distressed soul.

Adieu then, my dearest creature, adieu—a long, an eternal adieu. I give myself—I give you afresh to the great disposer of all events. May heaven's best blessings descend and rest up|on you forever. Once more I bid you an ever|lasting adieu.

I am your faithful friend and true lover, EMILIUS.

NOT long after the date of the above letter, Emil|ius having compleated the business which had occa|sioned him so long to reside at such a distance from ••is Oliva, began, notwithstanding the solemn leave he had taken of the idol of his hea•••••• to contemplate a journey for the purpose of seeing her: And what is ••••••y remarkable, on the very hour which he had ap|••••••••••ed to begin his journey, he received the follow|•••••• ••r from Mr. Calybs, Oliva's father:

LETTER XXVII. MR. CALYBS TO EMILIUS.

Dear and much respected Emilius,

I HAVE heavy tidings for you—My daughter, your Oliva, is no more. The last Sabbath she was so well as to attend the funeral of her youngest sister Charlotte, and the Tuesday fol|lowing was a corpse. Our babe died with the canker—Oliva caught the dreadful malady; and being exceeding restless, her physician judged it expedient to give her a portion of opium; after receiving of which, she appeared for a while, to be in a sweet sleep, and our hopes of her restor|ation were greatly revived: But to our astonish|ment, before the time we expected she would awake, she ceased to breathe. Thus she is gone! forever gone! and we must submit to the Divine pleasure without a murmuring thought. Please to excuse my freedom, and come and see us as soon as convenient. Though our daughter is no more, you may depend on finding a father in her father. I unfeignedly thank you for all that friendship and love you have exercised towards her. Mrs. Calybs and Anna send their love to you: Be so kind as to pray for us, that our af|flictions may be sanctified, and we made better by them. May God support you, as he has sup|ported us, under this great and trying dispensation of his holy providence.

I am your afflicted friend and most humble servant, D. CALYBS.

AFTER the funeral obsequies of Oliva were per|formed, her afflicted mother opened Oliva's scrut••ire, and found the foregoing letters, which Emilius had written to his beloved Oliva; together with the fol|lowing letter, sealed and directed to Emilius, dated three days only before her departure.

LETTER XXVIII. OLIVA TO EMILIUS.

Dear Sir,

IT is with pleasure intermingled with pain too great for pen and ink to express, that I ac|knowledge the receipt of your letter, dated May 30, 1774. Your troubled imagination, and anx|ious heart, are exact pictures of my own; for although, when I wrote to you last, my mind was much more calm than it had been some time before, yet, before I received your last, my dis|tress returned upon me with double force. I have been preparing every thing for that happy moment, when you and I should participate of those virtuous and refined joys, of which none but true lovers are capable.—But, alas! all my labour, as well as my love for you, is in vain.— You feel that we are never again to see each oth|er, and so do I. You have taken an everlasting farewel of me, and so I must treat you.—Which of us is soon to die—or whether both of us must speedily leave this world, are things unknown to

me; all I can say is, I have it impressed on my mind, that we shall behold one anothers faces, in this world, no more. I thank you a thousand times over for all that attention, friendship and love, you have shown for me, since the first mo|ment of our acquaintance. Should I be called away before you are, love my dear parents, for they have ever esteemed and loved you. But what am I saying! I know not but we are both under a delusion, and may yet realize all our ex|pected joys. However, my heart tells me some|thing great is about to take place. May the an|gels of God surround thee, Emilius, wherever though art; and heaven's best blessings rest upon you through time and eternity. Adieu, my dear Emilius, a long, an everlasting adieu.

I am your afflicted and unfeigned friend, OLIVA.

LETTER XXIX. EMILIUS TO MR. CALYBS.

Honored and much respected Sir,

YOU will excuse me if I call you father. Your letter has brought me tidings, the most me|lancholy that ever wounded a tender and bleed|ing heart. Is it indeed true, that Oliva—the young, the beautiful, the virtuous, the charming,

the all accomplished Oliva is no more!—Then break thou my heart, and burst ye mine eyes with sorrow—and be thou my soul dead to this world; for what is all creation to thee, when thy Oliva is no more. O mourn, mourn thou for thy Oliva, the idol of thine heart—for she is snatched from thine eager embrace. She has winged her way to the world of spirits—

But hark—the voice of reason cries God lives—while thy Oliva dies. 'Tis joyful truth—let grief be stay'd, For Nature's debts must all be paid.

Alas! what have I done, that I should be marked out for such peculiar afflictions? O Lord, did I love that dearest of creatures too much, that thou hast taken her away in the bloom of life? Was she not formed to charm my soul? and hast thou not cut her down to shew me the emptiness and uncertainty of all earthly enjoy|ments? Have I not sought her welfare, as well as my own, in all my intercourse with her? And have I not also sought thy glory in the connec|tion which now is no more? O Lord, I appeal to thee, for thou knowest the heart▪—but I must not forget that I am a poor imperfect crea|ture; and though Oliva, above all others, was formed to charm my heart; and though I may have been upon my guard against loving her more than I ought to love any creature, yet God must be justified in his conduct, and I must sub|mit to his holy pleasure.

Dear Sir, forgive me, if I have lost sight of you for a moment. My feelings are such as none

can conceive, who have not drank of the bitter cup I am now drinking. O my dearest, lovliest, sweetest creature, must my ears never more be charmed with the music of thy tongue, and my eyes never more be blessed with the beauties of thy form! My grief is too great for expression; I cannot suppress its overflowings: however, I will try to be calm and resigned—God has done nothing unrighteous—hush then my heart, be still, and know that God is the Lord.

Dear Sir, did the physician who administered the fatal dose, understand his business? Was he friendly to your family—was he himself? O that I had been present, and snatched it from those inchanting lips that received it, and saved the lovely creature from the deadly draught. But no more. I mean, dear Sir, to see you soon, when I shall enquire into all circumstances, and satisfy my wounded soul. But, alas—this will be the exact time when your daughter and I once expected to be triumphing in all the innocent joys of the conjugal state. O ye heavens, what a reverse is here! My dear parents, (for so you will permit me to address you) may he who gave you the most beautiful, virtuous and amiable child that ever lived, and has taken her away in the bloom of life, also give you grace to say, The Lord has given, and the Lord has taken away, and blessed be the name of the Lord.

The oldest and the youngest of your dear children are now no more; you have one who now lives: O that, like Anna of old, she may prove a favourite of heaven.

With every sentiment of friendship, and all the feelings of a disconsolate child, I beg leave to subscribe myself

Your unworthy friend, and most humble servant, EMILIUS.

NOT long after the preceding letter was written, Emilius visited the disconsolate parents of his depart|ed Oliva. The scene was truly affecting to all who beheld it. The good Mr. Calybs and his lady re|ceived Emilius with all the demonstrations of love that tender parents could receive a son who had been long absent. They mingled sorrows with joys; their hearts bled; their tears flowed, till weeping could be endured no longer. At this solemn and tender interview, Mr. Calybs delivered Emilius the forego|ing letters, which he had written to Oliva; togeth|er with that which Oliva had written and directed to Emilius but a few days before her exit. The emotions of Emilius' heart, on reading this letter, exceeded all description.

The next day the whole family of Mr. Calybs went, in company with Emilius, to mourn over the grave of his Oliva. No language can express the sorrows of Emilius heart on this solemn and tremen|dous occasion. Mr. Calybs presented Emilius with a suit of mourning, together with some of the favour|ite rings and jewels of his departed daughter, before they parted.

Thus we have given you a history of the courtship of Emilius and Oliva; to which we have added a brief account of Oliva's exit.

N. B. Emilius is still alive, and happy in the en|joyment of one of the most excellent women in the land.

CHAP. IV. Of the Courtship of BRAGADOTIUS and NUM|SKULDIA.—Not for example—but warning.

THE following anecdotes of the actual Courtship of Bragadotius and Numskuldia, are recorded, not for the example, but for the amuse|ment of the American youth.

As to parentage, education, turns of mind, and courses of conduct, Bragadotius and Numskul|dia, were much on a level. At an early period in life they formed an acquaintance, which final|ly issued in what they esteemed love—and marri|age was its consequence.

While Bragadotius viewed himself the most accomplished young gentleman within the circle of his acquaintance—Numskuldia considered her|self a lady inferiour to none, within the circle of her knowledge. Bragadotius, without counsel, felt himself equal to the important trust of pro|viding a companion every way suited to his taste and views in life: and Numskuldia became the

object of his highest ambition. For notwith|standing many fair creatures fell under the notice of his eye, none appeared to him so charming, none proved so captivating, as his incomparable Numskuldia. Contrary to the wholesome coun|sels and solemn commands of his parents, Braga|dotius was frequently out whole nights on what he called his own business. Sometimes he was obliged to break open his father's house; at others he was necessitated to take up his lodgings with the cattle in the barn, or some out house, till the day broke and the family were up.

The amorous Numskuldia was under less re|straints, than her beloved Bragadotius; which frequently chagrined, and pained him to the very heart. Bragadotius and Numskuldia were equal as to religion; for neither they nor their parents had the least appearance of any such thing.

The following is an Epistolary correspondence which passed between them during their court|ship.

LETTER I. BRAGADOTIUS TO NUMSKULDIA.

Dear Numskuldia,

YOUR appearance last Sabbath was more like an angel, than any thing I ever saw.—That

new hat, little cap and red gown you lately got at Boston, has perfectly charmed me. I always thought I had chosen the best girl in our town, and now I know it to be true. For I am sure there was not one who cut so grand a figure as you did. Notwithstanding the last night I ever saw you, was extremely boisterous, yet after we parted, I met with your brother and several others of equal spirit, who assisted me in pulling down several signs, and filling up sundry wells, together with a number of other heroic exploits, which become gentlemen of spirit. When I came home I found all bolted and barred against me, and therefore was oblig••d to take the barn. I wish you had been with me, for I assure you, I was very lonesome, and could not help thinking how I had tired myself. My father says I shall ruin myself, and disgrace my family. Perhaps you will hear something of these matters; if you should, be not concerned, for I shall weather the storm, and gain the harbour with flying colours.

I am your most humble servant, BRAGADOTIUS.

LETTER II. NUMSKULDIA TO BRAGADOTIUS.

Sir,

I HAVE received 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••etter with pleasure; and though I c•• 〈…〉〈…〉 my••el••, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 you very well

know, I am, by the assistance of your cousin, de|termined to give it a full answer.

Though I love a little fun once in a while as well as any body, yet it seems to me, I would never have given myself the trouble, if I had been in your place, to have played the pranks which you, Jack and others did, in so stormy a night—but let this all go. I am pleased that you are charmed with my new dress; I think it be|comes me very much; your cousin says it is the neatest in town. I hope you will not displease your father; for I am afraid he will disinherit you. Our Jack told me all your tricks; and did they not injure your character, and expose you to the displeasure of your father, I should care no|thing about them. I know old folks are full of notions; for they sometimes act as if they had forgotten that they were once young: this may be our case if we live long enough. Our Dolly says you are the prettiest fellow in the world, and I am a fool if I don't have you. I told her no|thing of our engagements to one another—say nothing Bragadotius.

I am your friend, NUMSKULDIA.

LETTER III. BRAGADOTIUS TO NUMSKULDIA.

Dear Numskuldia,

I AM much obliged to you for your letter; and heartily thank you for that concern you show

for my welfare▪ With respect to the old man, it must be confessed he talks high; but I hope it will be nothing more than talk; and that he will prove better than one could expect from his threatnings. If I should mind him, I should see no company once a week: To a man of my spirit, this would be truly mortifying. In matters of business I mean to observe his advice—but in matters of love and gallantry, I think I have a right to con|sult my own taste; if I did not, I am sure I should never see you again.

I am your true friend, BRAGADOTIUS.

LETTER IV. NUMSKULDIA TO BRAGADOTIUS.

Sir,

IN your last, you intimate, that if you did not consult your own taste, you should never see me again. This would have been well enough, had it not been connected with the idea of your father's disapprobation—which is not a little a|larming. I should be exceedingly grieved to have you displease your father; depend upon it, Bragadotius, if you do, your sisters will run away with all the old gentleman's interest, and you will be put to the hard necessity of getting your live|lihood by the sweat of your brow. I wish in your next you would explain yourself more fully. I

have nothing new to tell you, unless the marriage of Mr. G. to Miss P. be such; which was cele|brated last Thursday evening; they seem to be very happy, and I hope it will last.

I am,

Sir,

your real friend, NUMSKULDIA.

LETTER V. BRAGADOTIUS TO NUMSKULDIA.

Dear Numskuldia,

YOUR concern for my welfare has added ten thousand charms to all you have heretofore possessed. I believe in my soul you think a thousand times as much of what is necessary for our subsistenee in this world, as I do. However give yourself no uneasiness about my sisters run|ing away with the old gentleman's estate. They are as deep in the mire as I am in the mud.— They have, contrary to my father's express com|mand, kept company with two young fellows, who indeed I esteem, but he despises. This may prove a lucky hit for me. After all I wish the girls no harm: Perhaps the old gentleman's dis|pleasure may convince them that my conduct, or, in other words, a few funny tricks, should not set the world in an uproar, and hurl confu|sion through the earth.

To tell you the plain truth, my father is against my keeping the company of any body; and es|pecially

against my keeping your company. He says I am too young to be out in the night; and wonders what I can see in Capt. Mumpy's girls, that sets me so bewitch'd; and often tells me that I shall rue the day I ever formed any acquaint|ance with them, and a thousand other things of the same tenor. Sometimes he puts on a pleasant countenance, and says, Bragadotius, if you will be a good boy, and behave yourself well, till you are sixteen, you shall see suitable company with my approbation; but if you cannot be re|strained now, while you are so young, you may depend upon being ruined. These are the things, my dear Numskuldia, which made me intimate in my last, that if I did not consult my own taste, I should never see you again. After all, I am de|termined so to conduct my affairs, that if it should be my good fortune to marry you, I may be able to support you in a manner that becomes your family.

I am your friend and humble servant, BRAGADOTIUS.

LETTER VI. NUMSKULDIA TO BRAGADOTIUS.

Sir,

I HAVE received your kind letter, and think you have sufficiently explained yourself. I can't help laughing at the girls conduct, because

they have said so much against keeping, the com|pany of those whom our friends dislike. It seems as if your father wished you never to keep com|pany with the girls till you are grown old enough to be married. But what mortifies me more than all the rest, is what he throws out against the Mumpys. I am glad, however, that your heart seems to be steeled against reflections of this kind; and believe I must hold my tongue, for the future, about your displeasing the old gen|tleman.

I am your friend, NUMSKULDIA.

SOON after Numskuldia had received the a|bove letter, the difference between Bragadotius and his father arose to such an height, as render|ed it inconvenient for Bragadotius to remain un|der the old gentleman's roof any longer. He therefore took up his constant residence at Capt. Mumpy's, where, for several months on the stretch, without the least controul, our lovers riotted in all the joys of what they called love and gallantry. After which, Capt. Mumpy growing weary of so much expence and dissipation, as Bragadotius and his company occasioned in his family, advised him to return to his father's house, and if possible gain his pardon and good will; for, as circum|stances then were, he could no longer tarry with him. Chagrined and confounded at this unex|pected

repulse, Bragadotius, having too much pride to comply with the wholesome advice of the captain, resolved to leave his country; which he did, without communicating his design even to Numskuldia.

The SOLILOQUY of BRAGADOTIUS.

I SHALL now see how old Sturdum* 6.1 and Mumpy will feel; they certainly will reflect, that their severity has ruined one of the most prom|ising young gentlemen in the land. When they come to hear nothing of me, they will conclude I have put an end to my own existence, and charge the murder upon themselves. I will be hanged if I don't sweat them. Sturdum has no son but myself to heir his estate, and his daugh|ters have greatly displeased him; and Mumpy will never find so good a market for his only daughter, as he might have found with me; they will all be upon the wing to find me—But O my heart aches for Numskuldia; she is a kind and loving creature—her taste and temper is much like my own: I am afraid she will cry her eyes out. I don't care—they shall all know I am a man of too much spirit to be nosed about like a boy of a dozen years old. I am now in my six|teenth year, and ought and will have my own

way. But where to go I know not! I will try my fortune among strangers, seeing my acquaint|ance are so unkind.

With these and such like sentiments of resent|ment, Bragadotius, in cog, travelled from town to town, till he had got more than an hundred miles from home; where he met with several persons of his own taste, who made much of him while the little money he had lasted; but after his money was gone, he found his new friends all forsook him.

Ruminating, one day, upon his circumstances, by the road side, Bragadotius espied a young gen|tleman, whistling and galloping along, whom he thought he had seen before, and making up to him, found he was one of his former companions, whom Numskuldia had employed to search for him—and, if possible, to find and persuade him to return home. Bragadotius was greatly morti|fied, when he found his father and Capt. Mumpy had made no stir about his departure; but ap|peared rather pleased than displeased that he had left them; therefore he would not consent to re|turn, according to the request of Numskuldia; but let her know, by his friend, where she might direct her letters to him.

LETTER VII. BRAGADOTIUS to NUMSKULDIA.

Dear Numskuldia,

THE bad treatment I received from my fa|ther and yours, was the only cause I left B—l, without communicating my design to you. My heart has asked for you a thousand times since I left home; and I will be bound yours would have bled for me had you known the difficulties I have encountered since we part|ed. I find strangers of my taste are friendly no longer than my money holds out—which for some time has been gone. I should comply with your request by Mr. Hunter, and return immedi|ately to B—l, were it not that our parents appear to have no inclination ever to see me a|gain. I begin to think I am undone; and shall never return to B—l till my father has left this world; after that I may inherit his estate; for I understand he is of the opinion, that I am no more: which opinion I hope he will keep till the day of his death.

I thank you for that love and concern you have shewed for me; and hope in some future time I shall be able to fulfill all my engagements to you. Please to write me by the first oppor|tunity; and let no one know where I am, and you will oblige

Your humble servant, BRAGADOTIUS.

LETTER VIII. NUMSKULDIA to BRAGADOTIUS.

Sir,

MR. Hunter has this moment returned from the country with the joyful news that you are yet alive. All your relatives and mine, have done all in their power to persuade me that you had put an end to your life▪ They had heard a rumour from P—l, a town about fifty miles distant, that a dead person was found in a swamp, whom they concluded must be you. None can conceive the distress I have undergone since you left us. My own circumstances are truly alarm|ing; and the thought of your death have been distressing beyond all description. I must entreat you by all the ties of friendship, and by all those solemn promises you have so frequently repeated to me, to give me an opportunity soon to see you —for I am already undone—and shall be wretch|ed beyond all conception, if you refuse my re|quest.

I am your distressed NUMSKULDIA.

LETTER IX. BRAGADOTIUS to NUMSKULDIA.

My dear girl,

I RECEIVED your affectionate letter yester|day, and thank you for rejoicing that I am a|live. I believe there are but few people in B—l of your temper. But what do you mean by your circumstances being so alarming? I hope you are in jest. You may depend upon my giving you an opportunity to see me in a private manner, before long: for I would by no means have our relations know I am alive. I shall be at D—y, which is only ten miles dis|tant from you, in about eight days, when I hope to know your situation more particularly. I now begin to call to mind some things which my fa|ther, in an angry fit, once told me, that I should bring upon myself. However, be of good cour|age, I hope all will turn out well yet.

I am your friend and admirer, BRAGADOTIUS.

AFTER the exchange of the foregoing letters, Bragadotius had a strange turn of mind, which was followed by conduct as strange and foolish: 〈◊〉〈◊〉 instead of flying to his Numskuldia, and mar|•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 her according to his promise, he did not so 〈…〉〈…〉 as give her an opportunity of seeing him

in private; but idled away his time in the neigh|bouring towns and villages, skulking from house to house, in a habit which so disfigured him, that his former acquaintance would scarcely have known him. This conduct filled Numskuldia with more distress than any thing she had ever seen in her beloved Bragadotius; for her parents had now began to suspect her circumstances were truly deplorable. They had likewise heard that Bragadotius was alive skulking about the town. All this was known to Numskuldia—and what to do the foolish girl knew not. She was ashamed to appear in public—at home, the eyes of her parents met her with severe rebukes: She was disappointed in every attempt to see Bragadotius; she knew not what to do—she languished—she wished for death to put an end to her shameful existence. Capt. Mumpy, being overcome with the distress of his only daughter, finally so mana|ged matters, as to send an officer for Bragadotius, and proposed that he should marry his daughter, upon condition of his humbling himself to his father and to him; and if not, he should suffer the penalty of the law in such cases. At first Bragadotius utterly refused to comply with the captain's proposal; but finding he could get no bail and must go to jail immediately, listened to the tears of Numskuldia, and humbled himself be|fore his father and the captain—who forgave him upon condition of his promising to forsake his former vicious company, and attend to busi•••••••• which he did, and was married.

Thus ends the Courtship of Bragadotius and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 which in every respect was contrary to the prudenti•••• ••ims of Courting.

CHAP. IV. Of the Courtship of PARAMOND and MATILDA —the former an old Bachelor, and the latter an old Maid.

PARAMOND was a bachelor of about fifty; who, notwithstanding his large interest, had all his life feared to marry, lest he should not be able to support his family in that splendor he wished. He was a man of as good character as one could expect for a bachelor. His person was not ungraceful, though not very beautiful; his manners acceptable, allowing for the oddities peculiar to bachelors: And notwithstanding all these things, he firmly adopted a resolution to change his situation.

What puzzled him more than every thing else, was whether he should woo a young girl, an old maid▪ of widow. After several years reflection— for bachelors' thoughts run not very rapidly—he came to the conclusion to marry an old maid; and in the whole circle of his acquaintance (which

was by no means contracted) he could not find a fairer candidate for his affections than Matilda. Matilda was a lady of good family, and of a most excellent character; she was in reality exceed|ingly clever—but not handsome. Her good fa|ther left her possessed of a fortune of about four thousand pounds; which rendered her more beautiful in the eyes of Paramond than any per|sonal qualification whatever could have done.

At a certain wedding, Paramond and Matilda were rallied by some of the company then present, and put in mind of the propriety of their match|ing with each other. This so emboldened Para|mond in the secret conclusions of his heart, that he soon paid Matilda a visit in the character of a lover; which was received with that coldness and indifferency which are peculiar to old maids: However Paramond was not discouraged, as the following correspondence will shew.

LETTER I. PARAMOND to MATILDA.

SATURDAY.

Dear Matilda,

FOR more than thirty years since, I have had a secret flame enkindled in my breast for your person. You may remember the silver snuff box I had the pleasure to present to you when we were children. The sparkling of your

eyes, on that occasion, wounded my heart, and it has never been healed from that day to this. Should you ask the reason why I did not declare my passion before, I would answer because it was very great. My circumstances in life were then by no means affluent; and my love for you was too great to bring you (had it been in my power) into a situation in which you must have lived in a style less elegant than that in which you have been brought up. For more than thirty years it has been my constant study, as well as labour, to lay up money for the sole purpose of your spend|ing it in my company. The great disposer of all events has so far succeeded my worldly enter|prizes, that I am now worth about six thousand pounds clear of all incumbrances: This, added to the generous portion which your honoured father has left to you, may, with mutual affec|tions for each other, render us happy for that lit|tle space of time we have to spend in this world. I say that little space, for you must know we can|not live long in this world.

Thus, my dear Matilda, I have sincerely open|ed my heart to you, and shall wait with great anxiety, till you declare your sentiments upon this important and interesting matter. One thing more: It has always given me pleasure to know that you have uniformly rejected the most ad|vantageous proposals of matrimony.

I am,

dear Matilda,

your unfeigned friend and lover, PARAMOND.

To Matilda.

LETTER II. MATILDA TO PARAMOND.

MONDAY.

Sir,

THIS is the first time I have ever undertaken to write to a gentleman on the subject of your letter, with which I was honoured last even|ing; and it is not impossible but it may be the last. Let this be as it may, I must confess that your letter has convinced me, that old bachelors are not such cold, frozen and stupid creatures as they are generally represented. The hearts of men are hidden from the common eye, and may contain many things—yea, and agreeable things too▪ which do not fall under the notice of super|ficial observers. Who could have thought Pa|ramond had been a lover for more than thirty years on the stretch! I confess I am surprized; and were it not for your known character, as a man of veracity, I would not now believe you. Your letter has likewise mended my opinion of old maids; perhaps they are not such cold and despicable creatures as they have been generally represented.

Paramond, you have filled my head, to say nothing of my heart, with a thousand thoughts, which belong to youth, and not to old age. What shall I say? I will write no more, lest I expose myself.

A line from you will not be disagreeable.

Remember, Paramond, our first mother, ac|cording to Milton, had worth "That would be woo'd, and not unsought be won."

I am your friend, MATILDA.

To Paramond.

LETTER III. PARAMOND to MATILDA.

THURSDAY.

Very dear Matilda,

IT was with peculiar pleasure I received your obliging favour, written last Monday, and should now do myself both the honour and plea|sure, to wait on you, were it not for the agree|able news of the ship Nancy's arrival from the East-Indies, which I am informed has made a very great voyage, and demands my immediate attention. I hope she contains the richest silk that ever was woven, to deck my dear Matilda on a bridal day.

I am sincerely glad to hear that your letter to me was the first that ever you have written on the subject of mine. However, it damps my spi|rits to hear you say, that perhaps it may be the last. I hope this is nothing more than the ef|fect of your native modesty, and that you will

answer this with cheerfulness. I am really charm|ed with your judicious observations on old bach|elors and maids; and I suppose the great reason is, because they perfectly accord with my own feelings and sentiments. I hope your head is not so filled with youthful thoughts as to disturb your repose. It is truly an excellent character you have given of our first mother, out of Milton. I am perfectly willing that you should wear this excellent character; but I must beg leave to be the wooer.—Better late than never, is an old and good maxim.

What studies please—what most delight, We dream them o'er through all the night.

The whole of the last night my thoughts were ten times as much on you as on my rich ship from the Indies.

I am,

Matilda,

your real friend and lover, PARAMOND.

To Matilda.

LETTER IV. MATILDA TO PARAMOND.

MONDAY.

Sir,

I HAVE received your second letter with a de|gree of pleasure I never expected a letter

from any gentleman could have given me. I re|joice at the arrival of the Nancy from the East-Indies, and hope it contains the richest purple that ever graced a man in that happy moment, when he gave his hand to the lady of his choice. You are wise in attending to your ship, and kind in not forgetting your Matilda.

I thank you for your generosity in allowing me as 〈…〉〈…〉 I am able, to wear the character of our first ••other▪ and in return will bid you wel|come to become a second Adam.

Your thoughts on me are flattering; but it is probable, that before now they are fixed upon the rich ship.

I am,

Paramond,

your friend and most humble servant, MATILDA.

To Paramond.

LETTER V. PARAMOND TO MATILDA.

12 o'Clock Saturday night.

Dearest Matilda,

BEING almost wearied out with the labours of the day, and just ready to go to rest, a gentleman knocked at the door, and delivered me your endearing letter. I freely confess that it has given me new spirits, and banished sleep from my before dull eyes. What (my heart

whispers) Does Matilda—does Matilda rejoice at my prosperity; and will she allow me to act the part of a second Adam! Then what do I mean, by spending a single moment in attention to my ship? All the gold of both the Indies is trifling, when once compared with so rich a jewel as my Matilda. But I am afraid I shall appear to you like a child; however, remember, my Matilda, the passion which now agitates my soul, is of long standing, and of late has gained much strength— it burns with great vehemence. I feel surprised at myself, that I am no more charmed with the richest cargo that ever a vessel brought into A|merica! By some means or other my soul is swayed to love, and I cannot withstand the sacred passion.

My thoughts on you, you say, are flattering: but it is probable that they are all over before this time.

MATILDA, see from yonder flow'rs, The Bee flies loaded to its cell: Can you perceive what it devours? Are they impair'd in show or smell?

So, though I robb'd you of a kiss, Sweeter than their ambrosial dew— Why art thou angry at my bliss? Has it at all impoverish'd you?

'Tis by this cunning I contrive, In spite of your unkind reserve, To keep my famish'd love alive, Which you so wantonly would starve.

Your lover, PARAMOND.

To Matilda.

LETTER VI. MATILDA TO PARAMOND.

FRIDAY.

Sir,

YOU have written to me so many of your con|juration stories, that I begin to feel like a girl of eighteen. I wish you would lay them a|s••de for a while, and put on a more manly ap|pearance; at present say no more of your cun|ning in stealing kisses and such soft things; but talk to me of things more becoming our age: Tell me what the profits of your rich ship are— when I shall have the pleasure of seeing you in this city, and a thousand other things which be|come a man of business, and not a child of six|teen.

I am,

Sir,

your friend and most humble servant, MATILDA.

To Paramond.

LETTER VII. PARAMOND TO MATILDA.

Tuesday Evening.

Dearest Matilda,

YOURS of last Friday came safe to hand a few moments since; and notwithstanding

you seem to be somewhat out of humour at what you call my conjuration stories, I must tell you that I am pleased to my very heart that you feel like a girl of eighteen. Let these stories then drop—and I will talk to you about the profits of the rich ship Nancy.

The profits of the ship Nancy It seems will please your fancy.

—Know ye, then, that this ship, by this single voyage, has cleared me more than ten thousand dollars; besides furnishing me with the finest purple, and the finest silks for our nuptial even|ing.

I am your real lover, till death, PARAMOND.

To Matilda.

LETTER VIII. MATILDA to PARAMOND.

MONDAY

Sir,

I HEARTILY rejoice at your prosperity at sea, and wish you may succeed as well by land. You are a little merry upon me for asking you to let me know the profits of your ship Nancy: but I think I will forgive you, since you have been so good as to forgive my feeling like a girl of eighteen.

I hope you will keep the rich purple, and the fine silk you talk so much about, till you are blessed with the woman, whom of all the world you esteem the most. Think not, Paramond, that I am more concerned about the profits of your ship, than any thing else—it was but a joke, and I beg your pardon: when you are pleased to pay us a visit, I will tell you what I love the most in all the world.

I am your friend and most humble servant, MATILDA.

To Paramond.

AFTER exchanging the above letters, Paramond and Matilda had frequent interviews with each other, for more than six months, when the tide of their af|fections arose to such an height, that they cheerfully yielded themselves to one another, in the honourable and sweet bands of matrimony. The rich purple, and unparalleled silk which, in their correspondence has been so frequently mentioned, made their appear|ance on this happy couple, at church, as well as on almost every public occasion. Thus Paramond and Matilda have wiped away the reproach of Old Ba|cheldor and Maid; and have become the parents of •• fine boy, who is heir to more than twenty thousand pounds.

O that all the old bachelors and old maids in America, would follow the example of this hap|py couple.

CHAP. VI. Of the Courtship of POLYMOND and SYLVIA; the former a Widower, and the latter a Widow.

POLYMOND was a gentleman of about thirty eight years of age—a man of a fair mind, agreeable person, ana unexceptionable charac|ter, and a good estate. He had two children, whose genius and persons promised fair to make a shining figure in life.

Sylvia was a widow of thirty years of age— had four children, (two sons and two daughters) —she had no estate; but what was of more value in the view of Polymond—she was a lady of the greatest beauty, taste and piety.

Notwithstanding Polymond and Sylvia had been born and brought up within twenty miles of each other, and were both persons of consid|erable notoriety, yet they had formed little or no acquaintance with one another.

About ten months after Polymond had buried his dear companion, he came to a firm resolu|tion,

to marry again, as soon as he could suit himself: But where to find a lady that would answer his ideas of a second match, he was whol|ly ignorant. Upon a certain public occasion, he accidentally cast his eye upon Sylvia, whose graceful appearance shaded the glory of all a|round her; she was dressed in half mourning, and appeared with innocence and dignity, which never fails to command the attention of men of sense, judgment and taste. Polymond soon made himself acquainted with the circumstances of the charming Sylvia, and found them to be such, as emboldened him to make her overtures of es|teem, friendship and love; and accordingly spent several afternoons in her company. The follow|ing letters will give the reader an idea of their views, sentiments and feelings, during their Ccurtship, which terminated in about six months, after their first interview.

LETTER I. POLYMOND TO SYLVIA.

Dear Madam,

PERMIT me to lay before you some of the feelings of my heart. I have heretofore been blessed with one of the most amiable and lovely women that ever lived—but she is now no more. I have mourned for her most sincere|ly;

but this you know has no tendency to make up the loss of her; to me, she is as if she had never been—and therefore the language of di|vine Providence seems to be thus: O Polymond, the world is before thee, choose for thyself: Hence I am determined to marry as soon as I can suit my inclination, fancy and feelings. You, dear Madam, are the first I have seen, with whom I think I could be happy in the married state. And though I am not unacquainted with many of the pretty and enchanting feelings of the young and amorous, I will not trouble you with them on this occasion.

I have two lovely children, for whom I must provide; I have likewise an estate equal to my most affluent neighbours. Thus you see, dear Sylvia, my situation and feelings. What I most earnestly wish, is, that you would take them un|der your most serious consideration••; and as soon as may be convenient, write me your whole heart.

I am,

dear Madam,

your friend and most humble servant, POLYMOND.

LETTER II. SYLVIA TO POLYMOND.

Sir,

FROM the death of my beloved companion, to the moment I was honoured with your

kind and endearing favour, I have never had a single thought of marrying a second time. My circumstances are such, that I am pretty sure, no person calculated to suit my taste, would ever think of matching with me. My departed hus|band was a man of unbounded generosity; and though he always lived in a state of splendor, yet he died in a state of poverty; and conse|quently left me and four lovely children without any considerable means of support. I love my children and must cleave to them, let it reduce me to poverty and hardships ever so great. When a kind providence shall so order matters, as to provide for them, and furnish me with a person agreeable to my taste, I may marry—but not till then. I most sincerely thank you for that esteem you profess for my person, and for that generous proposal you have made—of keep|ing my company. I cannot say how I may feel upon becoming more particularly acquainted with your person and circumstances. One thing you may depend upon, and that is, your letters and visits shall be attended to with all that respect matters of this kind demand from one in my si|tuation.

It has been said, that a man can never love a second person with that affection, which is ne|cessary to render the conjugal state desirable;— please to give me your sentiments on this subject, if you should write to me again.

I am,

Sir,

your friend and humble servant, SYLVIA.

LETTER III. POLYMOND to SYLVIA.

Dearest of Women,

YOUR answer to my last has met with my ap|probation and esteem. I was not wholly unapprized of your circumstances, and therefore am not shocked to hear them painted in the blackest colours. I knew you had four children, on whose welfare your heart has been justly fix|ed.

That you have never thought of marrying since the departure of your worthy companion, is not strange; and is no reason I should not put such a thought into your mind.

I will assure you, that it is far from my mind to entertain the least thought of marrying you, without making handsome provision for your children; and likewise recommending myself to your taste.

With respect to a man's loving a second wo|man well enough to render the married state de|sirable, I must say, I have never had the least doubt of such a thing. The best proof, howev|er, of this is drawn from men of virtue and in|tegrity, who have had experience. As to my|self, I have been once married, and loved my wife as well as I wish ever to love any body; and I know that I loved several young ladies be|fore her, with the same kind of affection, and to the same degree, before ever I saw her.

Doctor B—, a gentleman of known integri|ty and unblemished piety, told me a few days since, that he had buried four companions, which were so equal in his affections, that were they all now alive, and presented before him, as they were the moment he gave them his hand; and he to loose his life, if he did not say which he preferred—he should not be able to do it▪

The idle fancy, therefore, of men and women not being capable of esteeming and loving seve|ral persons in succession well enough for marri|age, is what no person of sense will build upon. It is not improbable to me, that many a one has been led to fear a second match on this account, which I think is wholly founded on imagination, and not on the reason and nature of things.

I am,

Madam,

your sincere friend and true lover, POLYMOND.

LETTER IV. SYLVIA TO POLYMOND.

Sir,

BY some means or other, I am more pleased with your letters than I ever expected to be with the letters of any person living. Your gen|erous thoughts respecting my children, not only please but charm me. I must confess you have recommended yourself to my particular taste in

a manner very agreeably indeed. Your obser|vations on the possibility of esteeming and lov|ing several persons in succession, meet with my approbation: For although I have as yet never experienced any thing of this nature, I can see no reason why I may not.

I have one request more to make, which lies with no inconsiderable weight on my mind; and that is—that you would give me an idea of your religious sentiments; for I know not that I could be cast into a more disagreeable situation, than to be thrown into the arms of an infidel: For what fellowship can light have with darkness— the servants of the Most High with the servants of the adversary of all righteousness?

I love religion more than I can love any thing else in this world; and therefore be not surprised if I assure you, that I would rather en|dure ten thousand inconveniences in this life, than to match with an infidel, or even with an irreligious person: In this respect, I feel not on|ly for myself, but for my children, who must look up to my companion as their father, and be instructed by him in matters most important and interesting. Excuse, and believe me

Your real friend, SYLVIA.

LETTER V. POLYMOND TO SYLVIA.

Lovliest of Women,

I AM charmed with your piety—with that ten|der regard you have for your children, and that sacred respect you pay to religion; and therefore there was no need of your asking par|don for dwelling upon these great and interest|ing subjects. It is with real pleasure, I comply with your pious and rational request, in giving you a summary of my religious sentiments.

My parents were christians, who lived in the strict observance of all the duties▪ and doctrines taught by Calvin, that eminent minister of Jesus Christ, and reformer of the christian church.— The religious sentiments which I, for myself, have adopted, comprehend the leading ideas of Calvinism—and differ from him in nothing ex|cept several inconsistences, which he either had not time or wisdom to rectify.

True religion, in my opinion, consists in a conformity of mind, heart, and life, to the law of God and gospel of Jesus Christ.— In the midst of that almost infinite variety of sentiments, this, my dearest Sylvia, is all that I call religion; every thing else, in my opinion, being idolatry, superstition, enthusiasm and will-worship.

All the schemes of religion, ever yet published to the world of mankind, may be denominated

selfish, or benevolent.—Under the head of selfish religion, may be comprehended every false scheme of religion which has ever taken place in the world.—Under that of benevolence, we may say of true religion, that it is a religion which is derived from and supported by the scriptures of the old and new testament. This is the religion which I profess to believe and practise, and up|on which I mean to venture my soul into the world of spirits—for it bears the image of its ori|ginal, the great author of the universe.

But the Apostle says, Sanctify the Lord God in your hearts; and be ready always to give an answer to every man that asketh you a reason of your hope that is in you, with meekness and fear.

That boasting and proud mode of giving a relation of what is called religious experiences, too frequently practised among the warm and de|vout, is in my opinion, an abomination to the great God, and all good men.

With meekness and fear, therefore, I would now give you the following reason of my hope that I am an heir of the grace of God.

I now perfectly remember that when I was a|bout seven years of age, after hearing one of my parents commend me, together with my brethren and sisters, to the grace of God, that I was ex|ceedingly affected with a sense of my own vile|ness. I really felt myself an exceedingly vile and unworthy creature in the sight of God—be|fore whom I had been usually called to bow my|self morning and evening. This idea grew up|on me for more than ten years—I found myself

a wretch undone; for notwithstanding I had been taught, and knew my duty, such was the pride of my unhumbled and unsanctified heart, that I loved not the things which my reason and con|science told me were most excellent. Sometimes I was gay and airy; but never without some re|flection.

When I was about twenty years of age, it pleased the great disposer of all things (as I hum|bly hope) to change the temper of my heart. I remember perfectly well (which is not probably the case with every one) the place and time when I first discovered a change in my disposi|tion and feelings of soul.—I felt deeply impress|ed with a sense of the righteousness of the great Governor of the universe; and with the exceed|ing vileness of my own conduct in life—though I have been so happy as to escape those blots and blurs, which blast the characters of many of my fellow-citizens—I found enough in my char|acter and heart to fill me with blushing and con|fusion.

About this time, I felt an uncommon disposi|tion to take blame and shame to myself, for all my former conduct towards my creator; and was most sincerely disposed to censure and con|demn myself as a sinner before heaven. Now my conduct appeared infinitely more vile than ever it had done before; and I felt myself eve|ry way undone—and began to feel in such des|pair as words cannot describe. In the midst of this distress and horror of soul, I was, in infinite mercy, favoured with a fresh idea of the glori|ous gospel of Jesus Christ.—The glorious Re|deemer

appeared just such a saviour as I need|ed; and I thought I could with the greatest pleasure, yield my all up into his hands, without any reserve, for time and eternity. Since that time, the worship of God—his friends—his ordi|nances, and precepts, have been my delight.

In about twelve months after I observed this alteration in my heart and life, I joined myself to a congregational church of Christ, with which I have lived in the greatest harmony for a num|ber of years past. With great pleasure I have put my children under the watch and care of the church, with whom I am in covenant.

Thus, my dearest Sylvia, I have given you a summary of my religious sentiments; and, I hope, with meekness and fear, added a relation of my religious experiences. If I know my own heart, I must say, there is nothing in the whole circle of creation, which appears of more value, than real religion▪ it is in very deed the one thing needful. And to tell you the truth, all personal charms are of little value, where religion is de|spised. My former companion was a person of universally acknowledged wit and beauty: but her piety added ten thousand charms to all her other excellencies—her last words to me were, "Polymond, if you ever should marry again, see to it, that you match with a lady of virtue and piety—and may the great disposer of all things direct you in the pathway of life."

I am,

dear madam,

your unfeigned friend and most humble servant, POLYMOND.

LETTER VI. SYLVIA to POLYMOND.

Sir,

AS Felix said unto Paul—thou almost persuad|est me to be a christian—so must I say unto thee, Polymond—thou almost persuadest me to be thy companion. For notwithstanding I had drawn up a conclusion never to marry again, I begin to feel, that such a conclusion was rash, and unfounded on principles of wisdom; and that in the great store of my heavenly father, I may possibly find a companion, every way as agreea|ble to me, as my former one was.

I am without dissimulation, perfectly charmed with your sentiments in religion; and hope that relation you have given of your attachment to the great and interesting truths of the gospel, is genuine.

Remember, Polymond, our heavenly Father knows what is best for all his children; some must be afflicted, and some most triumph in all the joys of prosperity: if I am a child, I am an afflicted one; but I would not despair of the goodness and mercy of God. Bear me upon your heart as often as you go before the throne of grace; and believe me

Your sincere friend and most humble servant, SYLVIA.

LETTER VII. POLYMOND to SYLVIA.

Dear Madam,

I AM exceedingly happy to find, that my sen|timents on religion, so sweetly accord with yours. Depend upon it, it was your religious character that first led me seriously to reflect up on making proposals of matrimony to you. I am likewise happy to find that you are almost persuaded to comply with my request; and hope you will soon be altogether so.

It is an old maxim, and perhaps a true one, that widowers and widows ought not to spend so much time in courting, as it would seem neces|sary for those to do, who had never been marri|ed. Perhaps there is nothing within the bounds of decency, and limits of custom, to forbid our entering into the joyful bands of matrimony, within a few months from the present moment. You will say, I am plain and explicit—I mean to be so—and hope you will ever treat me in the same undissembled way.

I have found by happy experience, in days past, something irresistibly captivating, in the company of a fine woman: for though her tongue should be silent, her eyes teach wisdom; and the mind struck with the external graces, vi|brates into respondant harmony.

And while I'm fir'd, at Sylia blest, Amidst profusion still I pine; For though she give me up her breast, Its painting tenant is not mine.

Believe me, dear madam, I am determined to see you soon, when I hope we shall understand one another so well, as to free ourselves from the necessity of conversing at a distance.

I am,

lovely Sylvia,

yours till death, POLYMOND.

NOT long after writing the foregoing letter, Polymond spent several weeks in the company of his beloved Sylvia. And within six months from his first interview with this charming woman, was blessed with her hand. They have now lived several years as husband and wife, in the greatest harmony. Kind providence has indulged them with an happy pledge of their mutual affection.

There is no difference made between the children of the mother and the children of the father; all seem equally to share the affections of both. The too commonly odious idea of father in-law and mother in law, is sca••cely known by the children of this family.

Polymond feels himself more happy than he ever was before; and Sylvia finds no reason to complain. Their children are trained up in all the graceful and useful arts. And what is of more importance, than every thing else, both father and mother are ambitious to excel one another, in instilling into the minds of their children, just views of true reli|gion. Wisdom, virtue, religion and harmony reign triumphant through the family.

This is an example of a second marriage, worthy of the imitation of the Widower and Widow.

CHAP. VII. Of the Courtship of FAIRSHUTE and SHUTEFAIR.

FAIRSHUTE was a gentleman of about seventy five years of age, who had been favour|ed with two wives: by the first he had several children; by the second he had none. How|ever, his second wife brought him a considera|ble fortune, which was a consolation to him as great, as if she had born him sons and daughters.

Shutefair was a young lady of about twenty-five; in indigent circumstances; her eyes were black and sparkling, her skin dark, and her per|son not disagreeable.

Fairshute had cast his eye on Shutefair, and was determined to make one vigorous push to gain the young and fair creature, as a companion in his old age. But how to accomplish the mat|ter, he could not for a while satisfy himself.

Shutefair lived with Mr. Peter Meansomething. A gentleman of a singular character, and in cir|cumstances somewhat needy. Fairshute conclu|ded that it would be a matter of the last import|ance to gain the good graces of Mr. Meansome|thing, if he expected ever to win the young and amiable Shutefair. These he soon obtained, by a few presents of no great value; and Mr. Mean|something devoted himself to the service of Fair|shute, who employed him in carrying his letters to Shutefair, and receiving hers. In this office Mr. Meansomething did wonders.

The following is a correspondence between this remarkable couple, which lasted for more than six weeks; and finally issued in that happy connection, of which Mr. Peter Meansomething was the principal occasion.

LETTER I. FAIRSHUTE TO SHUTEFAIR.

Dearest Shutefair,

I HAVE been wishing for more than ten days since the funeral, or an opportunity to speak to you, but could get none. Mr. Peter Mean|something, with whom you live, tells me that he will deliver this letter to you, and convey a line from you to me, provided you are disposed to write one—which I shall consider as a great fa|vour indeed.

Be not surprised, my dearest Shutefair, that I should write to you so soon after the decease of my dear wife. My only apology is, that I know I have but a little while to live in this world, and therefore must improve my time in the best man|ner I can. You know your own circumstances, and you know mine. What I wish is to marry you as soon as possible.

I am,

dear Shutefair,

your friend and admirer, FAIRSHUTE.

LETTER II. SHUTEFAIR TO FAIRSHUTE.

Venerable Sir,

I HAVE received, by the hand of Mr. Peter Meansomething, your letter, which has not a little surprised me. I wonder at your imprudence, Grandfather! your wife has not been in her grave a fortnight yet! What do you mean by such childish things as those which you have written to me? I am afraid you think me a fool—or that you are crazy—or turning a child in your old age; either of which are melancholy consider|ations. Be so wise as to lay a••••de these childish things, and act with that dignity which becomes a gentleman of your age and circumstancees You say you know you have not long to live in

this world: I wish you would realize this impor|tant truth, and act consistently for the future.

I am your friend, SHUTEFAIR.

LETTER III. FAIRSHUTE TO SHUTEFAIR.

Lovely Shutefair,

I AM not at all surprised at your astonishment at my conduct in writing to you upon such a subject, so soon after the departure of my belov|ed wife. However, I can never be thankful enough, that Mr. Peter Meansomething has un|dertaken to communicate my letters to you, and your•• ••o me.

You seem to be surprised at my conduct; and, to tell you the truth, I am surprised at it myself. But we must remember there is a reason for ev|ery thing: My wife is gone, and to me, is as if she had never been; my life will soon go too: You have, therefore, an opportunity to gain a good estate, and not be troubled with an old hus|band very long. Please to consider this matter carefully, and write me soon, for the business calls for haste.

I am your real admirer, FAIRSHUTE.

LETTER IV. SHUTEFAIR TO FAIRSHUTE.

Sir,

I HAVE received your answer to my first let|ter, with a degree of pleasure I never expect|ed to experience on such an occasion. Your proposals are generous. My circumstances are necessitous; but the disproportion in our ages is more than fifty years—a circumstance, you must allow, rather unhappy.

When you first proposed a connection between us, I was really surprised; but the more I think of it, the less I am shocked. We read in the good book, that when King David was old, and could get no heat, that the young and beautiful Bishag was presented to him for the purpose of administering to, and lodging with him.—We are moreover told, that the King knew her not. How your proposal will finally set on my mind, is what I will not undertake fully to determine, without more time, and further consideration.— However, you may rest satisfied, that I will treat the subject with that attention which is due to matters of the last importance, till I shall have made up my mind upon it. In the mean time, I shall be glad to hear from you by the instru|mentality of Mr. Meansomething.

I am,

Sir,

your friend and most humble servant, SHUTEFAIR.

LETTER V. FAIRSHUTE TO SHUTEFAIR.

Charming creature,

YOUR letter has given me more pleasure than you can cleverly conceive. It is not un|common for young ladies to feel shocked at the first proposals of matrimony, especially when they come from an unexpected quarter. Mr. Peter Meansomething says you look serious and very thoughtful, and thinks my proposals are the principal cause of this uncommon appearance. Remember, my dear Shutefair, the moment you consent to write your name Fairshute instead of Shutefair, you become the mistress of my house, and heir of my whole estate. I would moreover inform you, that I am by no means so debilitated as King David was, when Bishag the Shunamite was placed in his bosom; for my eye-sight has not so failed me, that I cannot discern a great difference between you and any other lady in town. I wish to hear from you soon, for I feel impatient to know my fate.

I am,

dear Madam,

your admirer, FAIRSHUTE.

LETTER VI. SHUTEFAIR TO FAIRSHUTE.

Sir,

I HAVE deliberately taken under my most se|rious consideration, your generous proposals of matrimony; and am now prepared to give you an answer in full. Notwithstanding all the ob|stacles which have presented themselves in my way, I have come to a full determination to com|ply with your request: I am therefore yours. And now, Sir, I depend upon your generosity and kindness to me.—If I should fail of these, I shall become the most miserable of women.

My friends and relatives are surprised at my conduct; the eyes of the world are upon us—and there are more than fifty old maids and widows, who wish we may quarrel in one week; but de|pend upon it, if we do, it shall not be owing to any fault in me.

May the best of heaven's blessings rest upon you, Sir.

I am for ever yours, SHUTEFAIR.

LETTER VII. FAIRSHUTE TO SHUTEFAIR.

Dear Shutefair,

I AM quite charmed with your last letter, and would loose not a moment in giving it an an|swer. I thank you a thousand times over for complying with my request. I know the old maids and widows will make a fuss about us, and tell as many lies a-piece concerning our match, as they are years old: The cause is easily per|ceived;—but I will say no more. I am de|termined, as far as in me lies, to make you hap|py, and have not the least doubt but this is your resolution respecting me. Monday evening I will pay you a visit at Mr. Peter Meansomethings, when we will endeavour to adjust all matters re|specting our intended connection.

I am yours forever, FAIRSHUTE.

MONDAY evening, according to appointment, the old gentleman put on his best bib and band, and with difficulty, hobbled away to Mr. Peter Mean|somethings' to see his beloved Shutefair; and soon dispatched the important business of his COURT|SHIP, much to his own and his beloved••s satisfaction. This remarkable couple were married within six weeks from the first proposal of matrimony.

The whole town seemed in an uproar for several weeks. Every mouth almost was opened against them both—some blamed one, and some blamed the other—so that it was difficult for an impartial spec|tator to tell which was the greatest fool.

"The neighbours, one and all, cry'd heaven forbid That seventy-five should have so young a rib; But love, we know, is call'd a flame—then why, Won't fuel make the best that's old and dry?"

However, Fairshute and his lady, have proved as good as their word, to one another; and appear per|fectly pleased with their matrimonial situation: The old gentleman is fond of his young wife—and the lady is pleased that she has a good home, and becom•• heir to a good estate. They bid fair to end the•••• days more happily than either of them could have done in an unmarried situation. And thus ends the Coutrship of Fairshute and Shutefair.

CHAP. VIII. The Courtship of DAMON and HARRIOT.

DAMON—an American youth—was twen|ty-one years of ••ge, when he became the humble servant of Harriot. He was the oldest son of a reputable Clergymen; educated in the christian religion. However, during his residence at the University, from under the eye of his pious father, ••e contracted sentiments and habits quite incon|sistent with the christian religion, and returned home a finished Deist; which almost broke the hearts of his exemplary and pious parents. Not|withstanding all this, Damon was possessed of such a degree of beauty, sense, modesty and po|liteness, as never failed to gain him the esteem of those who beheld him—especially the esteem of the fair sex. Harriot, upon her first acquaint|ance with Damon, was turned of eighteen. She was the only child of a rich and reputable mer|chant, and of course heir to a very handsome for|tune; her education was liberal for a female, and very particular in matters of christianity.

Though Harriot was no beauty▪ yet, in her pre|sence, it was not uncommon for beauties to be|come dissatisfied with themselves. Harriot was one of those rare persons, the second sight of whom, always charms more than the first. She dresses with singular grace, always intermingling simplicity with elegance. Her ambition is to know what most becomes the fair sex, in every station of life; and her ruling passion the love of virtue. She is possessed of a tender, modest, del|icate and benevolent heart. The peculiar turn of her mind is cheerfulness, unallied to vanity. She always appears pleased, at the stated returns of her seasons of devotion.

Damon and Harriot formed their first acquaint|ance with each other, at a public entertainment. Damon, having entered the parlour, indulged his eye indifferently to wander over a numerous cir|cle of beautiful and well dressed ladies; in the midst of whom his attention was irrisistably fixed on the incomparable Harriot—whose pene••ra••••ing eye soon perceived herself the object of Da|mon's admiration. Both brushed, and in vein strove to hide from the company the impressions a sight of each other had made upon their ten|der and yielding hearts. The very next day, Damon found means to introduce himself to Har|riot as a courtier, and met with her modest ap|probation. The following correspondence will display before the reader, their sentiments, their love, and the obstacles which lay in their way▪ for a long time, of matching with each other.

Damon having chosen the study of law, as the high road to political preferment, was obliged to reside at some considerable distance from his be|loved Harriot, and therefore commenced the subsequent correspondence.

LETTER I. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Dear Harriot,

THE first impressions your lovely person made on my heart, have proved too powerful for opposition—too deep for eradication. They have answered one good end at least: They have con|vinced me that I was a stranger to myself—that cool philosophy is insufficient to silence the clam|ors of a warm, a loving heart. Since I parted with you, ten thousand kind and tender ideas have streamed through my unguarded, though alarmed mind; and as many new and uncom|mon feelings have rioted in my heart.

To give play to these new visitors of my soul, I have undertaken to write to you in a manner I have never done to any before; yea, in a man|ner I have heretofore thought no gentleman of integrity could do to any lady whatever. I mean 〈◊〉〈◊〉 one who is unfeignedly and entirely 〈◊〉〈◊〉 your command. It is a fact, which I cannot hide from you, Harriot, that you have so far gained

the ascendency over my heart, that I am never happy, but when thinking or writing about you. This is a situation into which, once, I could not thought it possible for me to be thrown by the charms of the most charming creature that ever existed. But facts are stubborn things. My consolation is, that it is honorable for the van|quished to acknowledge the power of the con|queror. Thus, dearest of creatures, I have un|bosomed my heart to you, and most earestly beg that you would not use the power you have gain|ed over me, to my destruction. Please to give me an answer which is generous; and depend upon my treating you and your writings with the greatest respect and generosity.

I am,

dear Harriot,

truly your admirer, and most humble servant, DAMON.

LETTER II. HARRIOT to DAMON.

Sir,

CONTRARY to that line of conduct, which heretofore I have adopted, and invariably followed, I now, with a trembling hand and anxious heart, set down to answer your favour received last evening. The business being quite new, and in every point of light very delicate, I must beg ten thousand pardons for whatever may

appear improper in sentiment and manner of communication.

Your professed esteem for my person is truly flattering; and what I never thought of taking place in the heart of any gentleman of your rare accomplishments But as flattery is too frequent|ly used by young gentlemen, for the language of politeness to ladies, you will excuse me if I treat it as such, till I am furnished with more ample proofs of your sincerity. Perhaps the impression of which you speak, may soon prove quite tran|sient and illusory both to you and myself. In this case, we may prove ourselves rash and in|considerate, if we reckon much upon them, be|fore their reality is more fully ascertained. Let this be as it may, be assured, Sir, your last visit left impressions on my heart too powerful not to demand my most serious attention: These shall all be unfolded to you as far as prudence shall dictate. From this declaration, you will easily see that I wish not to let my heart run away with my head—my fancy with my judgment. The first impressions made on the heart cannot always be relied on with safety; and therefore judg|ment must have time to be brought to maturity.

I acknowledge my obligations to you, for that attention you have been pleased to bestow on me, and shall be happy again to hear from you.

I am your obliged and most humble servant, HARRIOT.

LETTER III. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Lovely Harriot,

YOUR obliging and delicate letter has filled my heart with more pleasure than I can command language to express. The line of con|duct you formerly adopted, and constantly pur|sued, was undoubtedly judicious for the time of life in which it subsisted. But all general rules have some exceptions; and I am happy to find, that in the present case you have laid hold of one so much in my favour. Be assured, dear Madam, your confidence in me shall never be abused. I most heartily confess, that the language of flatte|ry is too often used to the ladies as the language of politeness. For, upon recollection, I find that I have in several instances been guilty of this un|gentleman-like conduct to the ladies. This is a folly which shows the great importance of exam|ining general customs, and shuning those things, which, tho' customary, are really unrighteous and abusive. But in the present case, you must give me leave to assure you▪ that my pen and heart have exactly corresponded with each other. And to convince you of the sincerity of this declara|tion, I will wait on time and s••••rounding circum|stances as far as the fervent emotions of my soul will admit. Your suggestion that my impressions 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••••ssibly prove illusory, and subject us both 〈…〉〈…〉 and rash steps, is so far from 〈…〉〈…〉 ••robation, that it has increased my

original flame for you. For having detected my self in an error respecting my philosophical senti+ments concerning the ladies, I am now determin|ed to be more suspicious of my abilities to with|stand the force of their charms. By some means or other, in the present case, I find my strength is weakness and my philosophy cool and unmean|ing.—I am therefore your willing captive, and beg you would treat me with that generosity which becomes a mind fraught with so much virtue and dignity as the mind of my ever lovely H••••riot.

Be so kind as to lay me under new and fresh obligations of gratitude by a second ••••ne from you, and believe me to be

Your true friend and unfeigned lover, DAMON.

P. S. Please to excuse the following lines.

Oft had I laugh'd at female power And flighted Venus' chain— Then cheerful sped each fleeting hour, Unknown to eating pain;

By Stoic rules, severely taught, To scorn bright beauties charms, Sage wisdom sway'd each rising thought, And woo'd me to her arms—

Till Harriot, heav'nly Harriot, came, Sweet pleasure play'd her round; Her lucid eyes shot forth a flame, That hardest hearts would wound.

Quick from my breast each bold resolve In empty Aether flew: My limbs, in trembling bliss dissolve, All wet with chilling dew.

O charmer! cease that ardent gaze. Nor rob me of my 〈◊〉〈◊〉;

Such light'nings from those eye-lids plays▪ It burns my tortur'd breast.

Deluded swains, who vainly proud, Assume gay freedom's air, And, boastful, scorn the prostrate crowd: That sigh before the fair!

If once fair Harriot, you should meet, And view her heav'nly mien; To love converted, at her feet, You'll hug the pleasing chain.

LETTER IV. HARRIOT to DAMON.

Sir,

YOUR second letter has made a greater im|pression on my heart in your favour than any thing which preceded it. I am happy to find that you approve of that general line of conduct which I have observed till very lately, and that my present deviation therefrom can be justified upon principles of reason and expediency. Your approbation of my ideas of the language of flat|tery being used for the language of politeness to the ladies, by the young and sprightly among the gentlemen, is pleasing; and your abhorrence of this practice is truly charming. I most sincerely thank you for that assurance you have given me, that you will take time and lay hold of every op|portunity to prove your profession of friendship is well founded and sincere. The poetry with which you close your letter is undoubtedly ex|cellent.

—I wish its application to me may prove judicious. Please to accept of the following lines and believe me

Your real friend and well wisher, HARRIOT.

A manly, modest piety inform'd,His searching spirit, and his bosom warm'd;Blest with a judgment, steady, strong and clear,That shun••d alike the giddy and severe;He scorn'd to drag superstitions chain,Or mingle with th' enthusiastic train.

LETTER V. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Dearest Harriot,

I AM more and more charmed with your sen|timents; and know not what will be the is|sue of my esteem and love for your person. I most sincerely thank you for the liberty your let|ters give me of hoping for success. The lines with which you closed your last, form a character in which I should glory much more than that of an Alexander or Caesar—for superstition and en|thusiasm are things I most heartily despise; and from the manner of your introducing them, I am ready to conclude, that your religious senti|ments are similar to my own—which is a circum|stance in a lady I have been afraid I should nev|er be so happy as to find.

Dearest of creatures adieu, DAMON.

LETTER VI. HARRIOT to DAMON.

Sir,

THE following letter from a near kinsman of mine, in your neighbourhood, has giv|en me inexpressible pain.—With all that frank|ness and sincerity belonging to an honest heart, I send it inclosed for your inspection, and must humbly ask whether you are injured thereby or not?

Your affectionate HARRIOT.

TO MISS HARRIOT—B.

My much esteemed and dear Cousin,

THAT love and friendship which has sub|sisted between us, from our childhood, shall be my apology for the following lines. I am told, and partly believe it, that Damon, that beautiful, accomplished, young and rich gentle|man, who lives at my next door, is actually en|gaged in paying his addresses to you. His par|entage is good—his education excellent, and his person is charming. But—how shall I express it? his sentiments differ as widely from yours as light is from darkness.—He is really a Deist, or what is more agreeable to him to be called, a free thinker. I am sure you have not the least idea of this, or you would never encourage his ad|dresses,

let them be ever so warm. He knows me, and you are at liberty to read this letter to him.

I am your unfeigned friend and relative, HENRIETTA.

LETTER VII. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Dearest of Women,

YOUR last letter has occasioned much un|easiness in my breast—I must—I will frankly own the truth of Henrietta's charge against me: I am really a disbeliever in Revelation; and from the lines with which you closed your last letter but one, I have been honoured with, I had fondly hoped you were of the same sentiment; but I find myself greatly mistaken. However, I have solemnly engaged not to deceive you in any thing respecting myself; and therefore do most readily acknowledge the truth respecting this matter.

However, I must likewise acknowledge, that I have never found one among my own denomina|tion, so agreeable to me as yourself. My philo|sophical sentiments have been such, as to justify my denial of all Revelation to Mankind. I wish you not to draw up any rash conclusions respec|ting this matter.—I will as soon as may be, com|municate to you my reasons for my faith, pro|vided

you wish to hear them. In the meantime, I wish you to read the writings of lord Herbert, lord Bolingbroke, David Hume, and the cele|brated Thomas Paine. With unabating affec|tion,

I am

dear Harriot,

Your friend and true lover, DAMON.

LETTER VIII. HARRIOT to DAMON.

Sir,

I AM chagrined and mortified beyond ex|pression, to find the man, whom I have es|teemed more than any other, has imbibed senti|ments which must separate us for ever. At the same time I must applaud your integrity and frankness, in acknowledging the charge laid a|gainst you by my cousin. A sincere Deist is a more commendable character than an hypocriti|cal believer in Revelation. The books you have recommended for my perusal, are perfectly fa|miliar to my mind, having been in my possession a long time, and read with care and candor over and over again; and indeed I know not of any Deistical writer of note, in the English language, from Lord Herbert, the first English Deist, down to Thomas Paine, whom I have not read. And I must confess, that notwithstanding several of these writers stand high in the list of fame among the literati, they appear to me, to have missed the

truth, in a manner truly astonishing. Among the whole groupe, I think Paine the greatest block|head. By this time your patience is probably gone, and you are ready to give me up as a weak and wrong headed enthusiast—be it so, Damon; I had rather be given up by you than by my God and Saviour; and I had rather give you up, as much as I love and esteem you, than give up my bible, my saviour and my soul. Please to reflect upon the consequences of your sentiments, and believe me still

Your sincere friend and humble servant, HARRIOT.

LETTER IX. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Dear Harriot,

I AM confounded and grieved for your mor|tification at my sentiments respecting Reve|lation. I am moreover surprised that this subject has been attended to with so much care and can|dor by one of your age. My reasons for re|jecting the bible as the word of God—as a reve|lation to man, are contained in those writings you have read; and therefore there can be no propriety in my enumerating them at this time. I will not hide it from you, Harriot, that, when I left your sentiments, in which I was carefully educated, by my honored and dear parents, and

adopted those which I now embrace, I was young and greatly attached to several members of the University, who were unbelievers in revelation, and at the same time great philosophers. I may be in the wrong, and therefore will most serious|ly examine the arguments in favour of my senti|ments; for I assure you, your solemn talk to me, respecting your attachment to Revelation, has greatly shocked my heart. Be so kind, Harriot, as not speedily to give me up; for I solemnly de|clare, I will not reject any light that can be thrown into my mind on this important subject.

I must beg you to give me the reasons of your faith in Revelation; for I find you have attended infinitely more to the subject, than I have ever done.

I am,

Harriot,

still your unfeigned friend and true lover, DAMON.

LETTER X. HARRIOT to DAMON.

Sir,

THE serious, candid and charitable way, in which you answered my last, has en|couraged me to undertake a task, which I am a|fraid is too great for my feeble pen. However, relying on the assistance of that God, whose hon|our and glory I wish ever to advocate—and feeling for the welfare of him, who says▪ Harriot,

give me the reasons of your faith in Revelation, I will gird up my loins, and attempt an answer to your request. In the mean time, let me humbly entreat you, as far as possible, to divest yourself of all former prejudices against the Book of God. —Set down, Damon, and read this sacred Book, with the greatest care and candour—asking your|self the questions as you go through it—Is this like the productions of meer man—are these su|blime descriptions of intelligent beings—of Dei|ty, of angels and men, to be found in composi|tions meerly human? Are the descriptions of cre|ation—of the fall of man—of the redemption of man—of morality—of religion—of the resurrec|tion—a day of judgment—a heaven and hell— equalled in any of the writings of any of the phi|losophers, ancient or modern? This request, Da|mon, cannot justly be thought unreasonable by you, who ingeniously have confessed that you have formed an opinion of Revelation at a period in life, when you must be sensible, that your judgment was not ••ipened to that degree it is now. Paradventure, a judicious examination of the scriptures of the old and new Testament, may finally issue in a system of theological sentiments quite different from those which you now em|brace. Remember, Damon, your philosophy has failed you with respect to the power of love. Perhaps it may likewise fail you with respect to the scrip••ures being a meer human composition. May the great God, whose existence and provi|dence y•••• cannot deny, inspire you with wisdom to discer•• the truth.

Your real friend and humble se••vant, HARRIOT.

LETTER XI. HARRIOT to DAMON.

Sir,

IN my last, I engaged to give you the reasons of my faith in Revelation. In doing which I must be excused from any thing more than a bare statement of them; for a f••ll illustration of them would require a volume of many pages.

The first reason of my faith, in Revelation is founded on the circumstances of mankind, who are destitute of what, enlightened christians plead, is a revelation from God. These are, in my view, evidently such as demonstrate that human nature, unassisted by supernatural aid, is in a most deplorable situation. The consequence must be that such supernatural aid is truly desirable.— When we contemplate the situation of the most enlightened and improved nations on earth, who are destitute of Revelation, the idea that the light of nature needs the assistanee of Revelation, rushes in upon our minds with irresistable force▪ I need not inform you, Sir, (whose mind is open to the various situations of those nations, which are destitute of Revelation) that not one of these nations have ever been known to form and em|brace a scheme of religion which would bear the test of common sense: Witness the religions of the Pagan world; yea, all the schemes of religion which have not been founded on revelation— the grossest idolatry—the greatest injustice, as well as the m••st immoral and obscene conduct, have been celebrated as acts of virtue and reli|gion.

Thus the world by wisdom, or philosophy, knew not God.

2. By contemplating the character of the one living and true God, I find it is not inconsistent with his perfections, to grant unto his depraved and benighted creature, man, an express revela|tion of his mind and will. For if the great char|acteristic of the Deity be goodness, and if the circumstances of men be such as call for such aid as a revelation from God—then his character cannot be impeached, provided he should give men such a revelation. The objection against the bible's being a revelation from God, because it is not given to all the nations of the earth at once, cannot be admitted; for in this case, we should be deprived of one of the greatest argu|ments in favour of revelation, viz. the great need in which men stood of it. The revelation no•• being sent to all men at the same time; those who enjoy it, may, by comparing themselves with those who do not, see in a more striking manner, the blessings of such a revelation, than otherwise it would be possible for them to do. Now, if it can be made to appear, that the scrip••tures of the old and new testament are such a•• aid to men as the circumstances of mankind re|quired, and the character of God admitted to be given to them—I think we shall have gained our point, that it is rational to believe that the Bible is a revelation from God.

This then is the third reason of my faith in re|velation, viz. That the scriptures of the old and new testament, are such a revelation of the mind and will of God, as the circumstances of men re+quired,

and the holy character of the God of Nature would admit to b•• given to mankind.

I shall not here stop to illustrate this idea, but proceed immediately to give you a fourth reason of my faith in revelation; which is, That the scriptures of the old and new testaments contain all the internal and external evidences of a reve|lation of the mind and will of God, any one could reasonably expect or wish for.

Thus, Sir, you see the ground upon which I go. Be so kind and generous as to examine each step with care and candor, and put me right where I have transgressed the laws of reason and common sense. I shall attempt some farther re|marks on this subject in my next. O that I might be the happy instrument of convincing you that the Bible is in reality the word of the living God.

I am,

Damon,

your real friend. HARRIOT.

LETTER XII. HARRIOT to DAMON.

Sir,

IN my last I endeavoured to state some of the first principles of my faith in revelation. In this I shall attempt some farther arguments in favour of the Bible's being the word of God.

1. All the doctrines of the Bible are 〈…〉〈…〉 r••ght reason. It is not denyed, tha•• sev|eral

of them, however, are such as men in the exercise of reason, unassisted by revelation could never have discovered. B••t it is affirmed, that after their discovery—though several of them are too great and sublime for our scanty faculties to comprehend—yet none of them are contrary to right reason.—To exemplify—The law of God requires supreme love to God, and impartial and universal love to mankind—which exactly cor|responds with the dictates of right reason and with common sense. The scheme of salvation revealed in the Bible, though incomprehensible and undiscoverable by the light of nature, has been acknowledged consonant to the dictates of right reason, by many of those wh••se rational powers are acknowledgely inferior to none of their fellow-creatures. Witness a Boyle, a Bacon, a Newton, an Addison, and ten thousand more, whose names are recorded in the annals of reli|gion and same.

Again, that true religion, according to the scriptures, consists in conformity to the moral law, which requires love to God and man, and compliance with the gospel—which requires re|pentance towards God, and saith in the Lord Je|sus Christ—together with a faithful observance of all the commandments and ordinances of God's house, has been found by the generation of the righteous in all ages, to be consonant to reason. The universality and perfection of the divine go|vernment—a future state of rewards for the righ|teous, and punishment for the unrighteous which is strictly eternal, are doctrines perfectly agree|able to reason. The particular doctrines of to|tal

depravity, human dependence, and the seve|ral operations of the spirit of God, with all those which are their consequents, are so evident to every judicious mind, that I need say nothing of their being consonant to right reason.

2. Another argument which I consider in fa|vour of the Bible's being the word of God, is the manner in which its doctrines were first propa|gated. The writers of the several doctrines found in the holy scriptures, lived in different ages, and in different parts of the world; but all appear to speak the same language, to be moved by the same Holy Ghost; which could not have been the case had they not been inspired of God.— Moreover the propagation of these sentiments have not been accomplished by the powerful arm of the civil law—by the dint of the sword; their intrinsic excellency has been felt and ac|knowledged by thousands. The spirit of God has evidently attended the reading and preaching of the great truths of the gospel, to the comfort and salvation of thousands who have been favor|ed with them.

Moreover, the original propagators of the doc|trines contained in the scriptures, were, generally speaking, illiterate men; and consequently un|furnished with the means of deceiving the world; and the doctrines which they preached and prac|tised were, in every point of light, contrary to the taste of selfish and wicked men. Their rapid spread, therefore, must be owing to the divine and not human agency.

A third argument in favour of the scri••s being of a divine original, is, that their contents

are of such a nature as far exceeds the highest stretches of the most exalted created minds and powers. All finite powers are confined to limits infinitely short of those exalted and ••••blime stretches of thought exemplified in the scriptures of divine truth.

4. The whole of the scriptures are delivered, not in the name of the penman, as would natu|rally have been the case, provided they had not been of a divine original—but in the name of the God of Nature, who undoubtedly is their au|thor.

5. Miracles, which were wrought in attestation of the truth of what the sacred penman wrote, are, notwithstanding all the Deistical tribe have said and written to the contrary, a powerful ar|gument in favour of the divinity of the scriptures.

6. The fulfilment of prophesies is an incon|testible and powerful argument that the Bible is the word of God.

7. The resurrection of Christ from the dead, must be considered by all rational and candid minds in the same point of light—Christ had fore|told his death, and the time of his resurrection— If this had failed of proving true, the scriptures must have been given up as a delusi••n—the en|emies of revelation would have had great reason to have triumphed over the friends to revelation and christianity. Perhaps you will say, this de|pends on the scriptures themselves. We ackn••w|ledge that the scriptures do ascertain this great and glorious fact; and we moreover affirm th•••• it is ascertained by human testimony; and con|sequently

ought not to be rejected by any ration|al man.

8. The internal evidences of the truth of the holy scriptures are very singular. These writ|ings, without exception, breath love and friend|ship to God and man; they are stamped with the marks of a divine original. We find men capa|ble of comprehending the works of genius and piety of a human kind; but where is the man to be found, who can grasp the lofty extent of thought, the elevated and sublime stretch of sen|timent contained in the lively oracles of the liv|ing God? We look at them as we do at the ex|tensive and mighty ocean, and see a part, but not the whole of their meaning.

While these sacred writings have been hated and ridiculed by the vicious, they have always been esteemed and loved by the generation of the righteous.

Thus, my dear Sir, I have given you some faint traces of the outlines of the reasons of my faith in revelation.

I advise you carefully to peruse Kneeland's View of the English Deistical writers, and the several answers to Pain's Age of Reason—which might with more propriety, have been stiled the Age of Folly.

I am,

Damon,

your real friend and most humble servant, HARRIOT.

LETTER XIII. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Dearest of Women,

IN your three last letters you have convinced me of one important fact, at least, viz. that there is one sincere believer in revelation. I must confess however, that I feel myself unarm|ed, and cannot dispute the soundness of your reasoning upon this great subject; though at the same time I must in honesty say, my heart is not well pleased with the general ideas contained in your defence of the divinity of the scriptures. I know not how to account for it, but so the fact is, that since I sat down seriously to examine the contents of what you call the holy scriptures, I have formed different ideas of my own moral character than what I have ever heretofore im|agined concerning myself.—The dread of the majesty of all the world has strangely fallen upon my mind, and I really have no peace of con|science.

I begin to mistrust, that the great difficulty in believing the scriptures are the word of God, lies not in my understanding, nor yet in the na|ture of the scriptures themselves, but in my own heart. O my dearest Harriot, pity and pray for me, who am unfeignedly

Your friend and sincere lover, DAMON.

LETTER XIV. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Dearest Harriot,

SINCE my last I have given up the point, and drawn the solemn conclusion▪ that the Bible must be the word of God; and from its contents, I imagine all men must be saved—for it says, that Christ has died for all, and willeth, that all men should be saved. This appears to me a glorious doctrine indeed; and what is e|specially agreeable to me is, that if all men shall be saved, I myself shall be saved too. I hope now we shall be of a mind. I feel myself reliev|ed from an insupportable burden, which like a mountain of lead, weighed down my immortal spirit. Rejoice with me, dear Harriot.

I am yours for ever, DAMON.

LETTER XV. HARRIOT to DAMON.

Sir,

I CONGRATULATE you upon the ac|knowledgment of the divinity of the holy scriptures. This appears to me an important step towards your salvation. However, I must take the liberty to inform you, that the doctrine

which you have imbibed as contained in the scriptures, is a delusion; there really is no such doctrine, as universal salvation, contained in those holy writings.—Those who have wished for happiness, without being willing to become holy, have ••••inly flattered themselves with this idea of salvation; but it is undoubtedly false:—If it be possible, I must persuade you to lay it aside, as what will by no means bear the test of revelation. Please to reflect, Damon, that nothing can be more evident from scripture, than at the close of time, all men shall appear before the judge of quick and dead—the good at his right hand, the bad at his left—and the righteous shall enter in|to life eternal, and the unrighteous shall go away into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels.—How solemn, dear Damon, is the scene which is just before us. With encreasing love and friendship, I am, Damon,

Your real friend, and most humble servant, HARRIOT.

LETTER XVI. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Dearest Harriot,

I KNOW not but I am ever to be in the wrong.—I thought, that when I could hear|tily acknowledge the divinity of the scriptures, I should be readily allowed orthodox, but this I now perceive is not the case. And upon re|viewing

my idea of universal salvation▪ as being contained in the scriptures, I feel ashamed of having abused those holy writings. It is really a fact, that the Book of God makes a wide dif|ference between the believer and the unbeliever —between the clean and the unclean—between him that serveth God, and him that serveth him not—and heaven and hell are to receive the dif|ferent characters.

Giving up then, the sentiment that all men shall be saved, I have come to a conclusion, that sal|vation is by the deeds of the law—for the righte|ous only shall be saved.—You must be sensible, however, that this idea of salvation, must be very alarming and painful, to one so destitute of righ|teousness as I am. I mean to apply myself, with the utmost diligence, to every requirement ••f the law; and hope I shall be so happy, after all my follies, as to work out my own salvation.

I am,

dearest Harriot,

your friend and unfeigned lover, DAMON.

LETTER XVII. HARRIOT to DAMON.

Sir,

I AM much pleased with your temper, respec|ting theological sentiments; and am happy to find you readily yielding to the force of truth. You have frankly given up the schemes of the

Deists and Uni••ersalists, which encourages me to hope that you will not retain that of the Ar|minians. I must, I will be faithful to you, Da|mon. Arminianism will as effectually ruin your soul, as Deism, or Universalism; therefore I must, if possible, persuade you to lay this self-righte|ous and ruinous scheme of religion aside. The revealed and plain truth is quite contrary to the leading features of Arminianism. In the scrip|tures we are assured, that men by nature, are en|tirely depraved.—This depravity consists in vol|untary opposition to the great Jehovah, the Fa|ther, Son and Holy Ghost. We are moreover assured, that G••d has fixed upon, and published, a plan for the salvation of sinners, which is en|tirely by rich, free and sovereign grace. I con|fess that it is difficult for men who have not care|fully reflected on this subject, to gain an idea, how they can be saved by grace, and not by works; and at the same time feel their obliga|tions to exercise repentance towards, and faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, and abound in every good word and work.

I earnestly wish you, Damon, to take this sub|ject under your most serious consideration. May your mind b•• led into the truth by him in whom we all li••e, move and have our being.

I am, as heretofore, truly your friend, HARRIOT.

LETTER XVIII. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Dear Harriot,

I KNOW not that ever I shall be otherwise than in the wrong. My early fixed deter|mination to steer clear of superstition and enthu|siasm, landed me in the deeps of Deism. Being driven from this ground by your masterly pen, I hastily adopted the idea of Universal Salvation but being convinced that this sentiment was un|scriptural and illusory, I fell into the Arminian scheme, which promises salvation to those who are careful to obey the law; and of course have been seeking to establish my own righteousness as my only ground of hope. But from your last, I perceive that I am still in the wrong; and in|deed I find that my own righteousness is far from that which God requires of every rational crea|ture; and that there is no evidence from the Bible, that the righteousness of Christ is designed only to patch up our filthy rags. I now know not which way to turn, unless it be to believe that I shall be saved, let me live and do as I may. And yet this scheme of religion does by no means correspond with the dictates of my reason.

Dear Harriot, be so kind as to unbosom your heart to your afflicted friend, on the all impor|tant subject of real religion; be not contented with telling me what is wrong, but tell likewise

what is right: for I assure you, I begin to ••••••l more concerned about the welfare of my soul than I have ever heretofore done. To encou|rage you in this infinitely important business, I will, with blushing, confess to you, that previous to my acquaintance with you▪ religion was never a subject of my serious consideration. Dearest of creatures, cheerfully comply with my earnest request, and lay your friend and lover under new obligations of esteem and gratitude.

DAMON.

LETTER XIX. HARRIOT to DAMON.

Sir,

THE account which you give of yourself is like that of a slender barge tossed on the boisterous waves of the raging sea—always in danger, though sometimes faintly hoping soon to gain a safe and commodious harbour. God is my witness, that I pity you from my very heart, and would cheerfully do any thing and every thing in my power to pilot you into the only har|bour of complete and eternal safety. For this purpose I must be allowed the liberty to use great plainness of speech—My love and concern for the welfare of your soul being too great to admit of flattery, or daubing with untempered mortar.

Be assured then, dear Sir, that the great obsta|cle, which lies in your way of understanding and believing the truth unto salvation, is ••e••••ed in your own breast. Be not angry with me, when I tell you, that this obstacle is nothing more no•• less than the voluntary enmity of your heart a|gainst the blessed God. Believe me, Damon, it was this that blinded your eyes against the reality and glory of that revelation which the God of love has been pleased to make of his mind and will, in the scriptures of the old and new testa|ment. It was this wickedness of heart which led you to catch hold of that mistaken idea of salva|tion, which the Universalists have presumptuous|ly palmed on the holy scriptures. And after your good sense and uncommon talents had led you to give up these too often fatal delusions, it was the corruption of your own depraved heart, which spurre•• you on to embrace the Arminian notion of salvation by the deeds of the law. And being again driven from the dangerous ground which you had inconsiderately taken, by the mighty power of truth—it was the same deceitful heart that led you, as your last resort, to the absurd and unscriptural scheme of salvation adopted by the Antinomians—which, give me leave to tell you, is no less foreign from the truth, than either of the former. Now, as these various schemes of religion will by no means answer your pur|pose, permit me in faithfulness to your best inter|est, to tell you, that your feet undoubtedly stand on slippery places. O, Damon, forgive me, if, by the terrors of the Lord I undertake to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 you into the paths of peace and happiness.

It is a fact little known and less felt by the care|less and inattentive world, that men, as they are by nature, are totally depraved; that this deprav|ity consists in selfishness—which, like a mighty fountain, bursts forth in innumerable streams, and deluges human nature with shame, disgrace and guilt; yea, ba••s up every avenue to life ev|erlasting. Till you are convinced of this great truth, you will be always laying hold of error in|stead of truth. For, believe me, Damon, the gospel plan of salvation, in every point of light, is absolutely contrary to the views and feelings of a selfish creature. Hence have arisen those innumerable false schemes of religion, which have disgraced, confounded and ruined a great part of the human race. Know, then, my dear friend, thyself. By comparing your heart and life, with the moral law, which indeed is a transcript of the moral image of that God, the peculiar glory of whose nature is disinterested benevolence, you will soon see what a wretch undone you are. Should you ask, And what shall I then do, when I have gained this knowledge, which you consid|er of so much importance—I answer, it will, as it always has been, be your duty immediately to repent and believe in the Lord Jesus Christ▪— From a sight of your true character, and a sight of your absolute dependance on God, the way will be opened, or more strictly speaking, pre|pared for you to understand the gospel scheme of salvation through Christ. You will find, you need just such an atonement for sin, as that which is published in the gospel—that you need just such assistance as that which is pr••ferred in the

gospel.—In one word, that you need just such a salvation as that which is tendered to you by the Mediator. Here let me with pleasure tell you, that if you are made the subject of saving grace, you will be charmed with all these great and glo|rious truths, together with ten thousand others, which now lie hidden from your eyes.

May the great God give you, O Damon, an heart to understand these important things.

Your unfeigned friend and most humble servant, HARRIOT.

LETTER XX. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Dearest of creatures,

I FEEL myself laid under new and fresh ob|ligations by every line you write me on that all-important subject, true religion. It is a fact I can by no means hide from you, that I am ex|ceedingly distressed for the welfare of my im|mortal soul. I perceive that you, by some means or other (I know not what) have got a know|ledge of my heart, which heretofore I supposed no one could have of the heart of another. For, upon the most critical and deliberate examina|tion, I find you have described the very temper and soul of it. You say I must immediately re|pent and believe on the Saviour of mankind.— This I easily perceive to be my immediate duty;

but alas! I find myself unable to do it; and how can I be to blame for not performing that which I have no ability to accomplish? I see not but I must perish after all. Harriot, were you ever in such a distressing situation? If you were, and have got out of it, point me the way in which I may do the same, and I shall be more than ever

Your friend and true lover, DAMON.

LETTER XXI. HARRIOT to DAMON.

Sir,

I THANK you for your acknowledgments of my sincere attempts to promote your best interests. I am moreover exceedingly pleas|ed, that the truth has found you out—that in fact it has showed yourself to yourself in any degree. But I must be forgiven if I tell you, that you need further information still respecting the de|ceitfulness of your own heart. Remember, my dear friend, the human heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked. You say that you perceive it your duty to believe on the Sa|viour of men—but find yourself unable to per|form this important task. Here let me freely observe, that this is a difficulty not uncommonly felt by those who are brought to the knowledge of the truth—and frequently got rid of with no

small trouble. I must, therefore, grudge no pains to free you from it.

1. Be so kind, Sir, as to reflect seriously upon the absurdity of any thing's being your duty which lies beyond the limits of your natural powers and faculties to perform.

2. Carefully examine whether, strictly speak|ing, the great duties of repentance and faith, are of this kind?

3. Carefully settle the matter, whether it be really a fact, that you feel yourself under obliga|tions to exercise repentance towards God and faith in the Lord Jesus Christ immediately, or not?

Now, that I might contribute, as far as in me lies, to your properly solving these momentuous questions—please to attend to the following re|marks:

1. There are many things incumbent upon men as duties, which they have no inclination to perform; but none which lie beyond the limits of their natural powers. The natural conse|quence is, that the inability which men are under to obey God, must be of a moral and not a natu|ral kind; and of course wholly inexcusable.— Hence

3dly. The want of natural ability is the only thing which can excuse us for the non-perform|ance of any thing which God commands.

But remember, dear Sir, a disapprobation of our wrong conduct towards God, lies within the limits of our natural powers and faculties; and of course is a duty incumbent upon us—for the non-performance of which, we can have no rea|sonable

excuse. Therefore, we may easily see, that when we feel it a duty to repent; and at the same time, feel no inclination to perform this du|ty, the difficuly lies not in the want of power, but in the want of inclination only—or in other words, in the positive and voluntary opposition of our hearts against God. When you come care|fully to examine these matters, I believe you will find I am not out of the way in my thoughts on this great and interesting subject. Wishing you much of the divine aid, I beg leave to subscribe myself

Your unfeigned friend, and and most humble servant, HARRIOT.

LETTER XXII. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Dearest of Christians,

YOUR attention to my best interest has more attached my heart to you than beau|ty or gold could ever have accomplished. Sure I am, that if ever man had a friend, I have one in you. I here acknowledge, though I should never see you again, I am under obligations of gratitude to the great disposer of all events, and to you, for that unwearied attention you have given to the welfare of my precious and immor|tal soul. The unexampled sincerity, the un|bounded

faithfulness, which you have exemplifi|ed towards me, can no more be forgotten than it can be rewarded by me.

I have in very deed taken the things which in your last you so faithfully and solemnly re|commended to my serious consideration; and find, that notwithstanding all my conviction, I have not yet been thoroughly stripped of all ex|cuses for my sins against God. But, blessed be the kind parent of nature, I now begin to see and feel myself wholly destitute of any real excuse for the wickedness of my heart. O wretched man that I am, who shall deliver me from the body of that death which hangs so heavily around my im|mortal soul?—O, Harriot, what shall I say? what shall I do? My iniquities are great beyond con|ception—beyond description. Can you pity me? Will you pray for me?

I am your distressed friend and lover, DAMON.

LETTER XXIII. HARRIOT to DAMON.

Sir,

YOUR last letter gives me more hopes of your welfare, than all I have received from you before. The commandment has come home to your conscience: sin has revived, and you have died. O Damon, I heartily rejoice, that your iniquities have stared you in the face; that

your excuses for them have fled away, and that you feel yourself a wretch undone. Depend up|on it, Damon, the whole need not a physican— but they who are sick. Now, now my friend, the way seems prepared for you to see the propri|ety of the gospel scheme of salvation; there such a Saviour as you need, is held up to your view; one who has made an atonement for your sin; who has opened the way for God to grant you that assistance, which you now feel you stand in the most pressing and dying need of. And now, what can I say unto you more proper, more suit|ed to your peculiar circumstances, than, Damon, immediately prostrate yourself on the bended knees of your distressed soul, before your offend|ed Maker—your abused Saviour—smiting on your breast, and crying, mercy! mercy! O thou God of mercy! for Jesus sake, upon one, who deserves no pity, mercy or compassion.—Sure I am, Damon, if you can sincerely and heartily do this, the bowels of divine compassion will roll ov|er you, and the language of heaven to you will be, Son be of good cheer, thy sins are forgiven. —May the God of all grace grant that this may be your happy case, for Jesus' sake.

I am yours, HARRIOT.

LETTER XXIV. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Faithful and lovely Harriot,

IT is with inexpressible pleasure, I lay hold on the first opportunity to inform you, that since I wrote my last, and before I received your last letter, I have been carried through one of the most astonishing scenes that ever mortal ex|perienced. I am in an awful manner de••eived, or I have, in very deed, passed from darkness to light, from death to life, from condemnation to justification, from wretchedness and despair to joys inexpressible and full of glory. For all this, I have nothing, by way of merit, t•• attribute to myself—it is solely the work of our God and Sa|viour. Old things are done away▪ behold all things are become new! Come, my dearest Har|riot, rejoice with me, and shout grace, grace, rich, free and sovereign grace, displayed to the vilest of the vile.

On the nineteeth of the present month, when the busy scenes of life were all out of ••ight, and all nature hushed into silence; in a late hour of a dark and tremenduous night, when my soul was evidently sinking in despair—when sleep had parted from my eyes, and attention to every thing but my own wretchedness, was entirely gone; all, all on a sudden, as in the twinkling of an eye, the thick darkness which had so long overshad|owed my soul, vanished away; and light poured into my mind in a manner truly astonishing. By light here, I wish to be understood truth; or, in

other words, a clear representation of the charac|ter of the true God, the Father, Son and the Ho|ly Ghost, as infinitely excellent; a view of my own character as infinitely odious and hateful in the sight of all intelligent and holy beings; a clear and affecting view of the character of Christ as Mediator, and the method of salvation through him. These and several other scenes of divine truth, arose and unfolded themselves to my mind in a manner truly astonishing. By passing from death to life, I wish to be understood, that where|as, previous to the moment I am now describ|ing, my soul was destitute of the least emotion of love to God; but now a sacred flame of divine love was enkindled in it, and every power of my whole man, was exerted in love to God, in re|pentance towards God, in faith in the Lord Je|sus Christ, and in love to his image, wherever I contemplated it. Upon the despair of my soul vanishing, joy inexpressible filled my heart. Now I love God••s holy, just and good law. I admire and love the gospel of Jesus Christ, which here|tofore I hated and ridiculed. I am charmed with the image of God stamped on his children. I am delighted with every form of divine wor|ship, and pleased with every ordinance of the gospel. And you will not censure me as a flat|terer, dearest Harriot, if I say, I love you more than I have heretofore ever done. Let us bless and adore God for all his goodness a••d mercy.

I am,

dear Harriot,

your affectionate DAMON.

LETTER XXV. HARRIOT to DAMON.

Sir,

I AM more pleased to hear of the pious and devout exercises of your heart, than I should be to hear myself proclaimed the sole gov|erness of all Europe.—The reasons of this will be perceived by you more easily, than by those whose hearts have never been expanded with dis|interested benevolence; the excursions of whose souls never leap the bounds of the narrow and contracted circle of self-love. We read of joy in heaven among the angels of God▪ over one sinner, that returneth and repenteth. If the Hi|erarchies of the upper world feel themselves so much interested in the welfare of an unworthy and insignificant mortal, well may mortals rejoice at each others happiness. But let us not be too sanguine in our hopes; but rejoice with trem|bling; for this becomes us, while in this vail of tears—while in this state of imperfection—while we have not gained the heights of glory—while we have not ascended the mount of God.

O Damon, let us not forget, that they only shall be saved, who hold out to the end.—That this may be the happy case of us both, let us nev|er cease to pray. I am, Damon,

Your rejoiced friend and most humble servant, HARRIOT.

LETTER XXVI. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Charming Harriot,

I CAN never be thankful enough for that un|wearied pains you have taken to reform me in sentiment, in heart and in life. I now humbly hope, God has in reality blessed your pious and unwearied labours, to my everlasting good; and doubt not but he will reward you for the same in the coming world, to which we are hastening.— When I reflect upon the remaining corruptions of my heart, I feel that I ought to rejoice in my prospects of future glory, with fear and trem|bling; r••••ling that none can be saved, but those who hold out to the end of life, in the exercise of every christian grace and virtue.

And now, Harriot, I must inform you, that I begin to find myself engaged in a warfare, of which previous to my change I had no idea. I find that I must, in fact, fight not with flesh and blood only, but with principalities and powers, with the rulers of the darkness of this world, or lose my soul after all. Little did I think, in that happy moment, when, without reserve, I gave my all into the hands of God, that I should so soon be called to put on the gospel armour, and plunge into the battles of the Lord, the Captain and Bishop of my soul. I find it impossible for one, who is really embarked in the cause of the dear Redeemer, to live in this world without re|proach and persecution. My Deistical acquaint|ance have got some idea of my views of mind,

feelings of heart, and determinations of soul, and begin to despise my company—Some say I am beside myself; others that I am acting a low|lived and hypocritical part, only to please a lady whom I wish to marry. The followers of the Lamb of God seek my company, and call me brother; they mark the change through which I have passed, and bid me God's speed.

I am pleased with the change of company, which seems to be the consequence of my change of heart. But Oh, what will become of those sprightly youths, who formerly were my dearest companions? They certainly are in the gall of bitterness, and in the bonds of iniquity. Their feet stand on slippery places, and must, unless sovereign grace prevent, slide in due time. Oh that each of them had an Harriot, whose instruc|tions would be attended to out of love. I am determined to do all in my power to convince them of their errors, and persuade them to em|brace the christian religion. You will join with me in addressing the throne of grace, night and day, with an express view to their salvation.

I am,

dear Harriot,

your obliged friend and most humble servant, DAMON.

LETTER XXVII. HARRIOT to DAMON.

Sir,

I AM extremely gratified with your last let|ter, because▪ it speaks the language of the redeemed, struggling through this vale of tears— to come off conquerors, yea more than conquer|ors, through him who hath loved and died for them. The effects of that change of sentiment and heart, you mention, are what I have been looking for, and so far as they evidence the real|ity of your religion, rejoice at. I have felt sim|ilar ones pressing upon my spirits for more than eight years; and no wonder, for the Lord God, immediately after the fall of man, put enmity be|tween the serpent and the woman whom he had deceived, and between his seed and her seed. Hence the righteous are an abomination to the wicked, and the wicked are an abomination to the righteous—and can no more have fellowship with each other, than Christ and Belial. Perse|cution is the natural consequence of these differ|ent natures; but let us be careful that we are re|proached and persecuted for nothing but well-doing—that we suffer for righteousness sake; then may we rejoice and be exceedingly glad, for great will be our reward in Heaven; for so persecuted they the Prophets who were before us; yea our Lord and master himself. O Da|mon, be not afraid to suffer the loss of all things for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus our Lord, who hath died for you; yea be

not afraid to die for the promotion of his cause, which you have so lately espoused.

Wishing you all that divine aid, which the God of love has promised those who are not ashamed of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, I beg leave to subscribe myself

Your real friend and sister in Christ, HARRIOT.

LETTER XXVIII. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Dear Harriot,

IN the greater part of my letters I have said but little to you, on the subject with which our correspondence was first introduced; and the reason has been, because you have constantly entertained me with matters infinitely more im|portant. I would now inform you, that my love for your person, instead of dying away, has en|creased ten thousand degrees; but notwithstand|ing all this, my love for the honour of christianity, which I have lately professed, and mean ever to advocate, is so much greater, that I can by no means adopt a line of conduct towards you, that can bring the least disgrace upon christianity.

The Deists say, that my profession of religion is only to please you. I wish to establish my own heart in the truth, and convince them, and you, and all the world, that my religion is not of such a hypocritical and selfish kind.—For this

reason, I am determined, at present, to say no|thing to you upon the tender and commanding subject, with which our correspondence was in|troduced.

I hope in a few months to see you, when I shall have an opportunity to unbosom my heart, to one who has proved herself my greatest friend. With every sincere and devout wish for your prosperity, I beg leave, dear Harriot, to subscribe

Your much obliged friend, and unfeigned lover, DAMON.

AFTER the exchange of the foregoing letters, (which took up the space of near two years,) these pious youths had frequent interviews with each other, for about three months; when Damon's business call|ed him to part with his beloved Harriot, for several months together. During this period the following letters were exchanged between them.

LETTER XXIX. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Dearest Harriot,

SINCE I parted with you, I have come to a firm conclusion, to lay aside the study of the law, and all my worldly schemes of ambition,

and commence preacher of that gospel, which I have heretofore reproached and ridiculed. The reason of this is not because I imagined it im|possible to be a christian, and at the same time a lawyer—to be a statesman, and at the same time a follower of the lamb of God; but because I think I can in this way do more to build up the cause, which before I strove to pull down, than in any other.

My dear and honoured father, considers me as the prodigal son; and rejoices over me, say|ing, my son was lost, but now is sound; was dead, but now is alive. You will excuse my troubling you with an account of this change of my cir|cumstances, and believe me,

Your faithful friend, and true lover, DAMON.

LETTER XXX. HARRIOT to DAMON.

Sir,

I THANK you for the important intelligence with which you were pleased to favour me in your last. And heartily wish you may be suc|ceeded in the great and important work you have engaged to pursue for life. Some may con|sider you as descending exce••ding low, by leav|ing the law and politicks, and confining yourself

to the generally despised business of a preacher of the gospel. But this is by no means my opinion. For I consider the office, an ambassador for Christ, as the most weighty and honourable, that man can sustain in this life. What, my dear friend, can be more honourable, than to be vest|ed with authority, to negociate a peace between the offended heaven and the rebellious earth? Than to bare the messages of love and peace to a perishing world? Gird up your loins then, Da|mon, and prove yourself a workman that need|eth not to be ashamed. O, that you may be a son of thunder unto those who are in a state of nature; and a son of consolation to those who are in a state of grace. O, that you may prove the happy instrument of turning thousands and tens of thousands to righteousness; and have them as the crown of your rejoicing at the great and last day▪

I am,

Damon,

your real friend, and well wisher, HARRIOT.

LETTER XXXI. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Lovely Harriot,

GIVE me leave to propose a question to you, which is of great importance to me, and I hope of no less importance to you. Are

you willing to marry your Damon? Can you give me your hand and heart; and make him who already is under greater obligations to you than to any other person on earth, more happy than he can be without you? Please to feel the importance of the question, and write me an answer as soon as may be.

I am

dearest Harriot,

your unfeigned lover, DAMON.

LETTER XXXII. HARRIOT to DAMON.

Sir,

I AM not a little surprised at your delicate and important question; for I had conclu|ded you would not think seriously of entering in|to the married state till you had been settled: However, it is a question which lies too near my heart to admit of trifling. Our acquaintance with each other has been of so long standing, that there can be no impropriety in our fully knowing each others mind. You have declared yours by the question which you have proposed to me. I will declare mine by the following answer: Da|mon, with chearfulness of sincerity of heart, I give myself to you.

I am,

dear Damon,

yours forever, HARRIOT.

LETTER XXXIII. DAMON to HARRIOT.

Loveliest of Creatures,

IT is my fortune to be continually laid under new obligations to you. I thank you for that chearful and generous donation of yourself to me; and to make you a suitable return for your love and generosity, I do most chearfully and solemnly give myself to you. Harriot,

I am yours forever, DAMON.

A FEW months after the exchange of the two foregoing letters, to the great joy of the parties, and their friends—Damon and Harriot, in the full bloom of youth, beauty and piety, were publicly given to each other, by their parents and them|selves, and their vows recorded by the proper officer.

Damon is now one of the most popular, fervent and useful preachers in the nation; and Harriot one of the most amiable and pious women in the land.

FINIS.

Notes

• * 6.1

  Bragadotius's father.