life, but often gives rise to events of the most tragical nature. As any truth that regards the peace of families cannot be too often inculcated, I make no doubt the following history, the truth of which is known to some in England, and to almost all France, where it happened, will prove acceptable to the public. At Paris, whose splendor and magnificence strikes every stranger with surprise, where motives of pleasure alone seem to direct the actions of the inhabitants, and politeness renders their conversation desirable, scenes of horror are frequent amidst gaiety and delight; and as human nature is there seen in its most amiable light, it may there, likewise, be seen in its most shocking deformity. It must be owned, without compliment to the French, that shining examples of exalted virtue are frequent amongst them; but when they deviate from its paths, their vices are of as heinous a nature as those of the most abandoned and dissolute heathens. The force of truth has made monsieur Bayle acknowledge, that if all the poisonings and assignations which the intrigues of Paris give rise to, were known, it would be sufficient to make the nost hardened and profligate shudder. Though such bloody events do not happen so often in London, they are, notwithstanding, but too frequent; and, as the avarice of the old sometimes conspires with the passions of the young to produce them, the story I am going to relate, will, I hope, be not unedifying to the inhabitants of this city.

A citizen of Paris, who, though he could not amass wealth, for the acquisition whereof he had an inordinate passion, made, by his unwearied efforts, wherewithal to maintain his small family handsoinely; he had a daughter, whose beauty seemed to be the gift of heaven, bestowed upon her to increase the happiness of mankind, though it proved, in the end, fatal to herself, her lover, and her husband. Monsieur d'Escombas, a citizen advanced in years, could not behold this brilliant beauty without desire; which was, in effect, according to the witty observation of Mr. Pope, no better than wishing to be the dragon which was to guard the Hesperian fruit. The father of Isabella, for that was the name of the young lady, was highly pleased at meeting with so advantageous a match for his daughter, as old d'Escombas was very rich, and willing to take her without a portion; which circumstance was sufficient, in the opinion of a man whose ruling passion was a sordid attachment to in

The most zealous partizan of the militia must acknow ledge its weakest part to be the want of proper subordi nation in the officers. A few singular instances of public spirit excepted, the hope of honour and emolument, and the fear of disgrace and punishment, are the general spurs to human industry; and these are wanting to the militia officer. This deficiency in discipline is the most felt in those regiments which are most respectably officered in point of qualification, as the commanding officers of militia will not often be inclined to exact a very strict obedience from persons who have great property and influence in their counties,

The ballotting for the militia, which was taken from the French, is also a defect. If every man ballotted were compelled to serve if able (which is impossible), there would be no injustice, as all would be on an equality. But as no person ever does serve, who can possibly afford to hire a substitute, the ballot is merely gambling who shall pay a most unequal poll-tax. If property were assessed to find soldiers, it would be more just, and the deputy-lieutenants might then be stricter in the choice of men, than common humanity will now permit them to be when the principal is in very low circum

stances.

P..

THE COLLECTOR.

No. XII.

Collatis undique membris.-HOR.

DISPROPORTIONED MARRIAGES.

ILL suited matches are productive of such complicated misery, that it is a wonder it should be necessary to declaim against them, and by arguments and examples expose the folly, or brand the cruelty of such parents as sacrifice their children to ambition or avarice. Daily experience indeed shews, that this misconduct of the old, who, by their wisdom, should be able to direct the young, and who either have, or are thought to have, their welfare in view, is not only subversive of all the bliss of social VOL. IV.

Y

life, but often gives rise to events of the most tragical nature. As any truth that regards the peace of families cannot be too often inculcated, I make no doubt the following history, the truth of which is known to some in England, and to almost all France, where it happened, will prove acceptable to the public. At Paris, whose splendor and magnificence strikes every stranger with surprise, where motives of pleasure alone seem to direct the actions of the inhabitants, and politeness renders their conversation desirable, scenes of horror are frequent amidst gaiety and delight; and as human nature is there seen in its most amiable light, it may there, likewise, be seen in its most shocking deformity. It must be owned, without compliment to the French, that shining examples of exalted virtue are frequent amongst them; but when they deviate from its paths, their vices are of as heinous a nature as those of the most abandoned and dissolute heathens. The force of truth has made monsieur Bayle acknowledge, that if all the poisonings and assignations which the intrigues of Paris give rise to, were known, it would be sufficient to make the most hardened and profligate shudder. Though such bloody events do not happen so often in London, they are, notwithstanding, but too frequent; and, as the avarice of the old sometimes conspires with the passions of the young to produce them, the story I am going to relate, will, I hope, be not unedifying to the inhabitants of this city.

A citizen of Paris, who, though he could not amass wealth, for the acquisition whereof he had an inordinate passion, made, by his unwearied efforts, wherewithal to maintain his small family handsonely; he had a daughter, whose beauty seemed to be the gift of heaven, bestowed upon her to increase the happiness of mankind, though it proved, in the end, fatal to herself, her lover, and her husband. Monsieur d'Escombas, a citizen advanced in years, could not behold this brilliant beauty without desire; which was, in effect, according to the witty observation of Mr. Pope, no better than wishing to be the dragon which was to guard the Hesperian fruit. The father of Isabella, for that was the name of the young lady, was highly pleased at meeting with so advantageous a match for his daughter, as old d'Escombas was very rich, and willing to take her without a portion; which circumstance was sufficient, in the opinion of a man whose ruling passion was a sordid attachment to in

terest, to atone for the want of person, virtue, sense, and every other qualification. Isabella, who had no alternative but the choice of a convent or of M. d'Escombas, preferred being consigned to his monumental arms, to being, as it were, buried alive in the melancholy gloom of a convent. The consequences of this unnatural union were such as might be expected; as madame d'Escombas in secret loathed her husband, her temper was in a short time soured by living with him, and she totally lost that ingenious turn of mind, and virtuous disposition, which she had received from nature. Certain it is, that a woman's virtue is never in greater danger than when she is married to a man she dislikes; in such a case to adhere strictly to the laws of honour, is almost incompa tible with the weakness of human nature. Madame d'Escombas was courted by several young gentlemen of an amiable figure, and genteel addreess; and it was not long before her affections were entirely fixed by Monjoy, an engineer, who was equally remarkable for the gentility of his person, and politeness of his behaviour. There is not a city in the world where married women live with less restraint than at Paris; nothing is more common there, than for a lady to have a declared gal lant, if I may be allowed the expression; insomuch that women, in that gay and fashionable place may be justly said to change their condition for the reason assigned by lady Townly in the play, namely, to take off that re straint from their pleasures which they lay under when single. Monsieur d'Escombas was highly mortified to see Monjoy in such high favour with his wife; yet he did not know how to get rid of him, though he had not the least doubt that he dishonoured his bed. On the other hand, madame d'Escombas and Monjoy, who looked upon the old man as an obstacle to their pleasures, were impatient for his death; and the lover often declared, in the presence of his mistress, that he was resolved to remove the man who stood between him and the happiness of calling her his own. In a word, he plainly discovered his intention of assassinating her husband, and she, by keeping the secret, seemed to give a tacit consent to his wicked purpose. Their design was to marry publicly as soon as they could dispatch a man who was equally odious to them both, as a spy who watched all their motions, and kept them under restraint. It was not long before Monjoy had the opportunity he wished for; he happened accidentally to sup with the husband of his

mistress, at a house not far from the Luxemburgh palace, and supper being over, desired him to take a walk with him in the gardens belonging to it, which the old man, who dreaded Monjoy as much as he hated him, did not dare to decline. In their way thither Monjoy found some pretence or other to quarrel with him; and having jostled him down, just as they came to the steps at the entrance of the garden, stabbed him several times in the back, and left him there breathless, and covered all over with wounds, which were given in such a manner as made it evident to every body, that he had been treacherously killed. It has been justly observed, that murderers often run headlong into the punishment which they have incurred by their crime; the conduct of Monjoy shews this observation to be just. No sooner had he committed the barbarous action above mentioned, but he went to a commissary, whose office is much the same in France with that of a justice of peace in England, and declared upon oath, that he had killed d'Escombas in his own defence. The commissary was at first satisfied with his account, and would have dismissed him; but Monjoy being in a great flutter, and continuing to speak, dropt some words which gave the commissary a suspicion of his guilt. He accordingly sent for the body, and his suspicions were confirmed by a view of it. The assassin was there committed to the Chatelet, which is the city-prison at Paris, as Newgate is here; the body was likewise sent there, and, according to custom, exposed to public view, that the relations and friends of the deceased might come and lay claim to it. No sooner was madame d'Escombas informed of the confinement of her lover, but, blinded with her compassion, she went to visit him in his prison, and was there detained upon a suspicion of being an accomplice in the murder.

In the prison madame d'Escombas and her gallant had plunged deep in guilty joys, and a child, whose education madanie Adelaid took charge of, after the tragical death of these lovers, was the fruit of their unlawful amours Monjoy, though he rioted in bliss, and his passion for madam d'Escombas continued unabated, was, however, from time to time seized with a deep inelancholy; he knew himself to be guilty of the murder, and had not the least doubt but he should fall a victim to public justice; he therefore joined with the friends and relations of madame d'Escombas, in endeavouring to persuade her to go for England, for he was aware of