variety would be, to change one folly for another, to quit the playhouse for Ombre, or the gentle strains of the opera for the serious contemplation of their own dear persons in a looking-glass.

I am yours, &c,

CLEORA.

I BEG you not to write any more on Lilliput paper. I am almost afraid to open your letter, for fear of finding, after a respectful margin, Madam at the top, and your name at the bottom, and trackless wastes of blank paper between, for me to fill up at my leisure.

You will be surprised to find, that, at a time when my health is declining, I should be planting trees, and laying out walks, as if I thought I had two or three hundred years to enjoy them. I need not assure you I have no such expectations; but it gives me an innocent, delight to form these sylvan scenes in an irregular manner, and with a secret art to imitate nature in her negli gent appearance.

I have no giants in yew, nor tygers or birds in holly; but instead of them,- firs and pines that grow just as nature designed them; and so intermixed with woodbines, syringas, and other flowery shrubs, that in a few months -they will be a perfect wilderness of sweets.

The satisfaction I take in this undertaking, makes me often fancy I am not sincere in my thoughts of soon leaving it. I am as busy in my garden, and as much surfeited with the grande monde as ever Diocletian was.

Sento qualche stupidita che me impedisce di goddere una vita nella corte plena di splendore e ceremonia tanto, che quella chi si trova nella campagna senza gloria et, senza turbenza *

Every plant that flourishes gives me a pleasure, and

I feel within me a kind of stupidity, which hinders me to enjoy that happiness at a court taken up with splendour and ceremony; that I relish in a country life free from pomp and hurry.

every drooping tree infects me with languishing. I watch every decay among my flowers as a celebrated beauty would grey hairs or wrinkles.

I have two or three sheep that perplex me as much as le Berger Extravagant's flock did him: and were I to indulge my rural delights, and return no more to the noisy town, I should fall into the most soothing and agreeable madness imaginable.

Come, Amaryllis, come, and with me share,

The blooming woodbines, and the fragrant air;
Together o'er the flow'ry walks we'll rove,
Or sit beneath the shelter of the grove:
While flocks upon the hills around us bleat,
And echoes to the streams their voice repeat.
Among the willows in a gloomy shade,
By nature form'd, there rushes a cascade;
Upon its banks you undisturb'd may lie,
While contemplation wafts you to the sky.

CLEORA.

LETTER IV.

PEOPLE seem at present more busily employed in preparing for the King's birth-day than for their own last, and appear to be in greater anxiety for a seat in the dancing-room, than for a seat in paradise.

I was last night with A barge of music followed us. But in the midst of this gaiety, your letter was not the only thing that put me in mind of mortality. I had such a violent pain in my head, that neither the wit of the company, the softness of the music, nor the beauty of the evening, could give me any sincere delight. If pleasure be the lot of man, it must be in something beyond the grave; for, on this side, constant experience tells us, all is vanity.

But this confession has hardly any influence on human conduct; for people in a high rank must often act against their reason, to avoid being thought unfashionable; and, for fear of being thought mad by the modish world, must act in a manner which they are sensible is being truly so, to keep in vogue with their polite cotemporaries.

I cannot forbear thinking with myself, that if a being endued with reason, and capacity of judging, (an inhabitant of another planet, and an utter stranger to our nature,) could take a view of our actions, he would be at a loss what to imagine we were; and had he no informer, but were to judge by our conduct, he would certainly either imagine that we were a species who were insured always to live in the world we now inhabit; or else, that, after enjoying ourselves here as long as we could, we were to be insensible for ever, without the least expectation of a future judgment, punishment, or reward.

You would hardly make an apology for desiring me to write to you, if you knew how much pleasure the injunction gives to, Yours unalterably,

CLEORA

THE news of my Lord's death has been so great a shock to me, that I want all your arguments against long life, to reconcile me to the shortness of his, at the latter end of seventy years. I have much ado to think that he did not die too young, since he had strength enough to endure the most exquisite torments. I loved him most sincerely as a relation, and esteemed him as a most valuable and faithful friend. My thoughts are continually employed about him; and I grieve for my own loss, and rejoice at his gain in the moment; and cannot forbear following him with my speculations to the mansions of eternal peace, and enquiring, with Mr Tickell, in his verses on the death of Mr Addison,

In what new region to the just assign'd?

What new employments please th' unbody'd mind?
A winged virtue through the ethereal sky,

From world to world unweary'd does he fly?
'Or curious trace the long laborious maze

"Of Heav'n's decrees, where wond'ring angels gaze?
Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell
How Michael battled, and the dragon fell?
Or, mix'd with milder cherubim, to glow
In hymns of love?".

I cannot help fancying, how his soul is charmed to find itself at liberty, and no longer chained to an infirm body, which continually clogged it in all its operations. How is he transported to be admitted to the presence of God his Saviour! And with what delight (if we may be allowed to conjecture that he remembers her) will he see his wife, for whom he has shed so many tears, in all the pomp of celestial glory! With what pleasure will he gaze upon the skies, while they unfold their sparkling treasures! and with what joy and wonder observe the planets in their courses, and look into all the deep philosophy of heaven! With what attention listen to the songs of angels, while they tune their golden lyres to the praise of God and of the Lamb! And how will his heart overflow with gratitude to his Saviour, while he reflects on what he suffered to purchase these pleasures for him!

When I consider the advantages of his change, I blame my grief; and yet, who can forbear to lament the best of friends, the honestest of men, and the most agreeable companion that ever was; especially in an age like this, where so little honour, friendship, and sincerity, are to be found? But I am not going to write a satyr upon mankind, and therefore will say no more, but that I am faithfully yours,

CLEORA.

LETTER VI.

To Clorinda.

You ask me, my dear Clorinda, what is the reason of the deep melancholy you observe in me? and are amazed to see how little relish I have for the things which amuse other people of my age and quality. Your partiality for me makes you fancy that my indifference is the result of a good understanding; and that the force my judgment has been able to subdue my passions. But, alas, how are you mistaken! My melancholy proceeds from the irregularity of my affections: Love, va

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nity, distrust, and repentance, conspire to rack me ;and,

When I look back on all my former days,
The only comfort the review affords,
Is, that they're past.

For, through their course I cannot recollect
One free from sorrow, guilt, and disappointment:
Yet heedless still through the same paths I stray,
And rashly venture on the dang'rous road;
With open eyes, like one asleep, I'walk,
And drink the cup, altho' I know 'tis poison'd.
Why am I thus led captive by my will,
While reason, faithful guide, for ever warns
My drowsy soul to shun impending danger?
This night may be my last; I ne'er again
May see the dawning of another morn :
Shall I forego the joys of heav'n, to soothe
A wayward fancy, or destructive passion?
Ah, no! let ev'ry faculty unite

To break the yoke! reason, resume thy sway,
And calm these wild disorders of my breast!
Whisper thy sacred dictates to my heart,
And bend it to th' observance of thy laws!
Inspire my soul with ev'ry heav'nly thought,
And shew me wisdom's paths! direct my steps
Nor leave me thus benighted!

There is not in nature a greater contradiction than my thoughts and actions; and it is impossible for me to account why they are so. I pursue the pleasures of the world, at the same time that I know them to be fleeting and worthless. I distract myself about the opinion of the public, though I despise the injustice of its censures. I cannot forbear repining at my unhappy circumstances, in suffering myself to be tormented with the ingratitude of some whom I thought my friends; nor weeping while I indulge a hopeless passion; though I know that

Quickly will my glass of life be run,

And with it all my joys and sorrows gone.
Then I no more shall feel love's cruel fire,
But cold and peaceful to the grave retire:
No more shall weep for the licentious wrongs

Of judgments rash, or scourge of sland'rous tongues.

And yet even this reflection can arm me with patience. Dam uneasy with my faults, without correcting; and in love with my duty without practising it. I act contrary