LETTER XIII.

To a gentleman in France, from his Sister; giving him a relation of her lover's musfortunes.

My dear Brother,

As my passion for Valerius had, in its beginning, your approbation, you will not blame my constancy at a juncture when the unhappy youth has no other consolation. His misfortunes have brought those virtues into view which, in the height of prosperity, he never found occasion to exert ; and, as his merit rises, you will not reproach me in finding my attachment to him more steady and resolved than in the splendour of his fortune.

You know how much my father piques himself on his quality, and how averse he was, when you left us, to Valerius's proposal, on no other account but his being a citizen, though a man of great virtue and wealth. However, this last motive, after some deliberation, prevailed; I was suffered to receive his addresses, and every thing was preparing to celebrate the marriage.

Valerius had always behaved himself in so ob-sequious a manner to his father, that he put a considerable stock into his hands, which the young merchant had improved by two or three successful voyages into Turkey; so that it was in his power to make a settlement vastly above my fortune, and far beyond my father's expectation; but while

the lawyers were busy in drawing up the articles, an unexpected misfortune put a stop to the whole affair.

The father of Valerius was an honest man, but exceeding credulous, and was (unknown to his son) drawn into many engagements for the debts of an extravagant brother, to whose interest the compassionate old man was too much attached; he soon found his error, being surprised with several arrests on his brother's account for more than his whole estate could answer.

The unhappy youth was quickly informed of his father's distress, and flew to his relief with all the speed that filial piety could give. One of their friends, who was present, told me, there never was a more moving interview. After a long pause of silent sorrow, the old gentleman charged his son not to involve himself in any straits on his account, but leave him to suffer the effects of his own imprudence.

"I know," continued he, "the happiness of your "life depends on your marriage with the gentle "Lemira, which will be entirely frustrated by your "being concerned in this affair ; nor is your whole "fortune sufficient to disengage me from this con"finement; but Death will soon bring me a full "discharge from a perplexity into which my too "great credulity, and ill-placed compassion, has

LETTER IX.

To Mr A**

I HAVE been contemplating on the period of all human glory among the tombs in Westminster Abbey; here the most towering ambition finds its limits; insulting Death has fixed the bounds, and pronounced the imperial mandate, "Hitherto "shalt thou go, and no farther :" and "Here "shall thy proud waves be stayed." The wildest boast of mortal vanity yields to the dreadful Conqueror; the glory of Nature, with all the accomplishments of Art, are humbled together in the dust:

Here, in one horrid ruin, lyes

The great, the fair, the young, the wise:
Th' ambitious King, whose boundless mind,
Scarce to a world could be confin'd,
Now, content with narrower room,
Lyes crowded in this marble tomb;
Death triumphs o'er the boasted state,
The vain distinctions of the great:
Here in one common heap they ly,
And, eloquent, in silence cry,
"Ambition is but vanity!"

And see, this sculptur'd tomb contains
Of beauty the abhorr'd remains

That face which none unmov'd could view,
Has lost th' enchanting rosy hue:

Those once resistless sparkling eyes,

No more can heedless hearts surprise:
That form, which ev'ry charm could boast,
In loathsome rottenness is lost.

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See there the youth, whose cheerful bloom
Promis'd a train of years to come;
Whose soft address and graceful air,
Had scarce obtain'd the yielding fair,
When Fate derides th' expected joys,
And all his flatt'ring hope destroys.

There sleep the Bards, whose lofty lays
Have crown'd their names with lasting praise;
Who, though eternity they give,

While heroes in their numbers live,
Yet these resign their tuncful breath,
And Wit must yield to mightier Death.
Ev'n I, the lowest of the throng,
Unskill'd in verse, or artful song,

Shall shortly shroud my humble head,
And mix with them among the dead.

I am now reconciling myself to these gloomy abodes; I would grow familiar, I would contract an intimacy with death, in order to meet the grisly phantom without consternation.

But what I am here contemplating is only the dark side of the prospect, which disappears whenever my thoughts turn to the bright reverse; death is then no more a meagre skeleton, followed with a train of terrors, but comes in an angel's form, with a gay retinue of heavenly loves and graces; he comes the kind messenger of my liberty and happiness, with a smiling aspect, beckoning me away from these stormy regions, to the worlds of unclouded light; the scenes of immortality are opened before me; the palm, the starry crown,

view: Oh, when will the happy period come, which ends this mortal story! But my friendship for you shall outlive the date of this transitory existence, and be the same when I am no more, af ter the formalities of this lower world.

Your humble servant,

THEOPHILUS.

LETTER X.

To Lady **** from a Sylph.

You will find this Letter on a bank of violets, where I have often the pleasure to seat myself near you, unseen; and never fail of being entertained with that vivacity and innocent wit that sparkles in your conversation. However negligent you are of your invisible admirer, your earliest part of life has been my care; my services claim the pre-eminence of all my mortal rivals, and give me a right to make my pretensions before your heart admits an earthly passion.

I have followed your early rambles over the flowery lawns, guarded you on the verge of murmuring streams, and screened your beauty from the sultry noon; I have fanned you with my golden plumes, and breathed the fragrance of the spring about you; by me the music of the groves has been improved, while I have joined with the feathered chorus to divert you; the nightingale for