crowd after me; it will be each man's happiness (if ye shall chance to be bashful) to be neglected. I shall be found to be the greatest criminal; and my safety, for which the general voice will be engaged, will be yours.

But then comes the triumph of triumphs, that will make the accused look up, while the accusers are covered with confusion.

Make room there !-stand by !-give backOne receiving a rap, another an elbow, half a score a push a-piece!

Enter the slow-moving, hooded-faced, downlooking plaintiffs.

And first the widow, with a sorrowful countenance, though half-veiled, pitying her daughter more than herself. The people, the women especially, who on this occasion will be fivesixths of the spectators, reproaching her. You'd have the conscience, would you, to have five such brave gentlemen as these hanged for you know not what?

Next comes the poor maid, who, perhaps, has been ravished twenty times before, and had not appeared now, but for company-sake, mincing, simpering, weeping by turns, not knowing whether she should be sorry or glad.

But every eye dwells upon miss!-See, see, the handsome gentleman bows to her!

To the very ground, to be sure, I shall bow, and kiss my hand.

See her confusion! see! she turns from him! -Ay, that's because it is in open court, cries an arch one!-While others admire her-Ay, that's a girl worth venturing one's neck for!

Then we shall be praised-Even the judges, and the whole crowded bench, will acquit us in their hearts; and every single man wish he had been me!--The women, all the time, disclaiming prosecution, were the case to be their own. To be sure, Belford, the sufferers cannot put half so good a face upon the matter as we.

Then what a noise will this matter make !Is it not enough, suppose us moving from the prison to the Sessions-house,* to make a noble heart thump it away most gloriously, when such a one finds himself attended to his trial by a parade of guards and officers, of miens and aspects warlike and unwarlike; himself their whole care, and their business! weapons in their hands, some bright, some rusty, equally venerable for their antiquity and inoffensiveness! others of more authoritative demeanour, strutting before with fine painted staves! shoals of people following, with a Which is he whom the young lady appears against? Then, let us look down, look up, look round, which way we will, we shall see all the doors, the shops, the

windows, the sign-irons, and balconies, (garrets, gutters, and chimney-tops included,) all white-caped, black-hooded, and periwigged, or crop-eared up by the immobile vulgus; while the floating street-swarmers, who have seen us pass by at one place, run with stretched-out necks, and strained eye-balls, a round-about way, and elbow and shoulder themselves into places by which we have not passed, in order to obtain another sight of us; every street continuing to pour out its swarms of late-comers, to add to the gathering snow-ball, who are content to take descriptions of our persons, behaviour, and countenances, from those who had the good fortune to have been in time to see us.

Let me tell thee, Jack, I see not why (to judge according to our principles and practices) we should not be as much elated in our march, were this to happen to us, as others may be upon any other the most mob-attracting occasion-suppose a lord-mayor on his gawdy-suppose a victorious general, or ambassador, on his public entry-suppose (as I began with the lowest) the grandest parade that can be supposed, a coronation-for, in all these, do not the royal guard, the heroic trained-bands, the pendent, clinging throngs of spectators, with their waving heads rolling to and fro from house-tops to house-bottoms and street-ways, as I have above described, make the principal part of the raree-show?

And let me ask thee, if thou dost not think that either the mayor, the ambassador, or the general, would not make very pitiful figures on their galas, did not the trumpets and tabrets call together the canaille to gaze at them?—Nor, perhaps, should we be the most guilty heroes neither; for who knows how the magistrate may have obtained his gold chain? while the general probably returns from cutting of throats, and from murders, sanctified by custom only. Cæsar, we are told,† had won, at the age of fifty-six, when he was assassinated, fifty pitched battles, had taken by assault above a thousand towns, and slain near 1,200,000 men, I suppose exclusive of those who fell on his own side in slaying them. Are not you and I, Jack, innocent men, and babes in swaddling-clothes, compared to Cæsar, and to his predecessor in heroism, Alexander, dubbed, for murders and depredation, Magnus?

The principal difference that strikes me in the comparison between us and the mayor, the ambassador, the general, on their gawdies, is, that the mob make a greater noise, a louder huzzaing, in the one case than the other, which is called acclamation, and ends frequently in

higher taste, by throwing dead animals at one another, before they disperse, in which they have as much joy as in the former part of the triumph; while they will attend us with all the marks of an awful or silent (at most only a whispering) respect; their mouths distended, as if set open with gags, and their voices generally lost in goggle-eyed admiration.

Well, but suppose, after all, we are convicted; what have we to do, but in time make over our estates, that the sheriffs may not revel in our spoils?-There is no fear of being hanged for such a crime as this, while we have money or friends. And suppose even the worst, that two or three were to die, have we not a chance, each man of us, to escape? The devil's in them, if they'll hang five for ravishing three!

I know I shall get off for one-were it but for family's sake; and being a handsome fellow, I shall have a dozen or two of young maidens, all dressed in white, go to court to beg my life -And what a pretty show they will make, with their white hoods, white gowns, white petticoats, white scarfs, white gloves, kneeling for me, with their white handkerchiefs at their eyes, in two pretty rows, as his Majesty walks through them and nods my pardon for their sakes!— And, if once pardoned, all is over; for, Jack, in a crime of this nature there lies no appeal, as in a murder.

So thou seest the worst that can happen, should we not make the grand tour upon this occasion, but stay and take our trials. But it is most likely that they will not prosecute at all. If not, no risk on our side will be run; only taking our pleasure abroad, at the worst; leaving friends tired of us, in order, after a time, to return to the same friends endeared to us, as we to them, by absence.

This, Jack, is my scheme, at the first running. I know it is capable of improvement.For example, I can land these ladies in France, whip over before they can get a passage back, or before Hickman can have recovered his fright, and so find means to entrap my beloved on board, and then all will be right; and I need not care if I were never to return to England.

Memorandum to be considered of-Whether, in order to complete my vengeance, I cannot contrive to kidnap away either James Harlowe or Solmes, or both? A man, Jack, would not go into exile for nothing.

LETTER CXVI.

MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

IF, Belford, thou likest not my plot upon Miss Howe, I have three or four more as good in my own opinion; better, perhaps, they will be in

thine; and so 'tis but getting loose from thy present engagement, and thou shalt pick and choose. But as for thy three brethren, they must do as I would have them; and so, indeed, must thou -Else why am I your general? But I will refer this subject to its proper season. Thou knowest, that I never absolutely conclude upon a project, till 'tis time for execution; and then lightning strikes not quicker than I.

I

And now to the subject next my heart.

Wilt thou believe me, when I tell thee, that have so many contrivances rising up and crowding upon me for preference, with regard to my Gloriana, that I hardly know which to choose? -I could tell thee of no less than six princely ones, any of which must do. But as the dear creature has not grudged giving me trouble, I think I ought not, in gratitude, to spare combustibles for her; but, on the contrary, to make her stare and stand aghast, by springing three or four mines at once.

Thou rememberest what Shakspeare, in his Troilus and Cressida, makes Hector, who, however, is not used to boast, say to Achilles in an interview between them; and which, applied to this watchful lady, and to the vexation she has given me, and to the certainty I now think I have of subduing her, will run thus: supposing the charmer before me; and I meditating her sweet person from head to foot :

Henceforth, O watchful fair-one! guard thee well:

For I'll not kill thee there! nor there! nor there!
But, by the zone that circles Venus' waist,
I'll kill thee ev'rywhere; yea, o'er and o'er.—
Thou, wisest Belford, pardon me this brag:
Her watchfulness draws folly from my lips;
But I'll endeavour deeds to match the words,
Or may I never-

Then, I imagine thee interposing to qualify my impatience, as Ajax did to Achilles :

-Do not chafe thee, cousin ;
-And let these threats alone,
Till accident or purpose bring thee to it.

All that vexes me, in the midst of my gloriedin devices, is, that there is a sorry fellow in the world, who has presumed to question, whether the prize, when obtained, is worthy of the pains it costs me; yet knows, with what patience and trouble a bird-man will spread an acre of ground with gins and snares; set up his stalking-horse, his glasses; plant his decoy-birds, and invite the feathered throng by his whistle; and all his prize at last (the reward of early hours, and of a whole morning's pains) only a simple linnet.

To be serious, Belford, I must acknowledge, that all our pursuits, from childhood to manhood, are only trifles of different sort and sizes, proportioned to our years and views; but then is not a fine woman the noblest trifle, that ever was or could be obtained by man?--And to

what purpose do we say obtained, if it be not in the way we wish for ?—If a man is rather to be her prize, than she his?

AND now, Belford, what dost think? That thou art a cursed fellow, ifIf-no ifs-but I shall be very sick to-morrow. I shall, 'faith.

Sick!-Why sick? What a-devil shouldst thou be sick for?

For more good reasons than one, Jack.

I should be glad to hear but one.-Sick, quotha! Of all thy roguish inventions, I should not have thought of this.

Perhaps thou thinkest my view to be, to draw the lady to my bedside. That's a trick of three or four thousand years old; and I should find it much more to my purpose, if I could get to hers. However, I'll condescend to make thee as wise as myself.

I am excessively disturbed about this smuggling scheme of Miss Howe. I have no doubt, that my fair-one, were I to make an attempt, and miscarry, will fly from me, if she can. I once believed she loved me; but now I doubt whether she does or not; at least, that it is with such an ardour, as Miss Howe calls it, as will make her overlook a premeditated fault, should I be guilty of one.

And what will being sick do for thee? Have patience. I don't intend to be so very bad as Dorcas shall represent me to be. But yet I know I shall retch confoundedly, and bring up some clotted blood. To be sure, I shall break a vessel; there's no doubt of that; and a bottle of Eaton's styptic shall be sent for; but no doctor. If she has humility, she will be concerned. But if she has love, let it have been pushed ever so far back, it will, on this occasion, come forward, and shew itself; not only in her eye, but in every line of her sweet face."

I will be very intrepid. I will not fear death, or anything else. I will be sure of being well in an hour or two, having formerly found great benefit by this astringent medicine, on occasion of an inward bruise by a fall from my horse in hunting, of which, perhaps, this malady may be the remains. And this will shew her, that though those about me may make the most of it, I do not; and so can have no design in it. Well, methinks thou sayest, I begin to think tolerably of this device.

I knew thou wouldst, when I explained myself. Another time prepare to wonder; and banish doubt.

Now, Belford, I shall expect, that she will shew some concern at the broken vessel, as it may be attended with fatal effects, especially to one so fiery in his temper as I have the reputation to be thought to be; and the rather, as I shall calmly attribute the accident to the haras

ses and doubts under which I have laboured for some time past. And this will be a further. proof of my love, and will demand a grateful re

turn

And what then, thou egregious contriver?

Why then, I shall have the less remorse, if I am to use a little violence; for can she deserve compassion, who shews none?

And what if she shews a great deal of concern?

Then shall I be in hopes of building on a good foundation. Love hides a multitude of faults, and diminishes those it cannot hide. Love, when acknowledged, authorizes freedom; and freedom begets freedom; and I shall then see how far I can go.

Well, but, Lovelace, how the deuce wilt thou, with that full health and vigour of constitution, and with that bloom in thy face, make anybody believe thou art sick?

How!-Why, take a few grains of ipecacuanha; enough to make me retch like a fury. Good!-But how wilt thou manage to bring up blood, and not hurt thyself? Foolish fellow! Are there not pigeons and chickens in every poulterer's shop? Cry thy mercy.

But then I will be persuaded by Mrs Sinclair, that I have of late confined myself too much; and so will have a chair called, and be carried to the Park; where I will try to walk half the length of the Mall, or so; and in my return, amuse myself at White's or the Cocoa. And what will this do?

Questioning again!-I am afraid thou'rt an infidel, Belford-Why then, shall I not know if my beloved offers to go out in my absence?— And shall I not see whether she receives me with tenderness at my return? But this is not all: I have a foreboding that something affecting will happen while I am out. But of this more in its place.

And now, Belford, wilt thou, or wilt thou not, allow, that it is a right thing to be sick?— Lord, Jack, so much delight do I take in my contrivances, that I shall be half sorry when the occasion for them is over; for never, never, shall I again have such charming exercise for my invention.

Meantime these plaguy women are so impertinent, so full of reproaches, that I know not how to do anything but curse them. And then, truly, they are for helping me out with some of their trite and vulgar artifices. Sally, particularly, who pretends to be a mighty contriver, has just now, in an insolent manner, told me, on my rejecting her proffered aids, that I had no mind to conquer; and that I was so wicked as to intend to marry, though I would not own it to her.

Because this little devil made her first sacrifice at my altar, she thinks she may take any liberty with me; and what makes her outrage

ous at times, is, that I have, for a long time, studiously, as she says, slighted her too-readilyoffered favours. But is it not very impudent in her to think, that I will be any man's successor? It is not come to that neither. This, thou knowest, was always my rule-Once any other man's, and I know it, and never more mine. It is for such as thou, and thy brethren, to take up with harlots. I have been always aiming at the merit of a first discoverer.

The more devil I, perhaps thou wilt say, to endeavour to corrupt the uncorrupted.

But I say, not; since, hence, I have but very few adulteries to answer for.

One affair, indeed, at Paris, with a married lady, I believe I never told thee of it, touched my conscience a little; yet brought on by the spirit of intrigue, more than by sheer wickedness. I'll give it thee in brief:

A French marquis, somewhat in years, employed by his court in a public function at that of Madrid, had put his charming young newmarried wife under the control and wardship, as I may say, of his insolent sister, an old prude.

I saw the lady at the opera. I liked her at first sight, and better at second, when I knew the situation she was in. So, pretending to make my addresses to the prude, got admittance to both.

The first thing I had to do, was to compli ment my prude into shyness by complaints of shyness; next, to take advantage of the marquise's situation, between her husband's jealousy and his sister's arrogance; and to inspire her with resentment, and, as I hoped, with a regard to my person. The French ladies have no dislike to intrigue.

The sister began to suspect me; the lady had no mind to part with the company of the only man who had been permitted to visit her; and told me of her sister's suspicions. I put her upon concealing the prude, as if unknown to me, in a closet in one of her own apartments, locking her in, and putting the key in her own pocket; and she was to question me on the sincerity of my professions to her sister, in her sister's hearing.

She complied. My mistress was locked up. The lady and I took our seats. I owned fervent love, and made high professions; for the marquise put it home to me. The prude was delighted with what she heard.

And how dost think it ended?—I took my advantage of the lady herself, who durst not for her life cry out; and drew her after me to the next apartment, on pretence of going to seek her sister, who all the time was locked up in the closet.

No woman ever gave me a private meeting for nothing; my dearest Miss Harlowe excepted.

My ingenuity obtained my pardon; the lady being unable to forbear laughing throughout the

whole affair, to find both so uncommonly tricked; her gaoleress her prisoner, safe locked up, and as much pleased as either of us.

The English, Jack, do not often out-wit the French.

We had contrivances afterwards equally ingenious, in which the lady, the ice once broken, Lonce subdued, always subdued] co-operated. But a more tender tell-tale revealed the secret -revealed it, before the marquis could come to cover the disgrace. The sister was inveterate; the husband irreconcilable; in every respect unfit for a husband, even for a French onemade, perhaps, more delicate to these particulars by the customs of a people among whom he was then resident, so contrary to those of his own countrymen. She was obliged to throw herself into my protection-nor thought herself unhappy in it, till childbed pangs seized her; then penitence, and death, overtook her the same hour!

Excuse a tear, Belford !-She deserved a better fate! What hath such a vile inexorable husband to answer for!-The sister was punished effectually that pleases me on reflection—the sister was cffectually punished!-But perhaps I have told thee this story before.

LETTER CXVII.

MR LOVELACE TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.

Friday Evening. JUST returned from an airing with my charmer, complied with after great importunity. She was attended by the two nymphs. They both topt their parts; kept their eyes within bounds; made moral reflections now-and-then. O Jack! what devils are women, when all tests are got over, and we have completely ruined them!

The coach carried us to Hampstead, to Highgate, to Muswell-hill; back to Hampstead to the Upper-Flask; there, in compliment to the nymphs, my beloved consented to alight, and take a little repast. Then home early by Kentish-town.

Delightfully easy she, and so respectful and obliging I, all the way, and as we walked out upon the Heath, to view the variegated prospects which that agreeable elevation affords, that she promised to take now-and-then a little excursion with me. I think, Miss Howe, I think, said I to myself, every now-and-then as we walked, that thy wicked devices are superseded.

But let me give thee a few particulars of our conversation in the circumrotation we took, while in the coach-She had received a letter from Miss Howe yesterday, I presumed?

She made no answer. How happy should I think myself to be admitted into their correspondence! I would joyfully make an exchange of communications.

So, though I hoped not to succeed by her consent, [and little did she think I had so happily in part succeeded without it, I thought it not amiss to urge for it, for several reasons; among others, that I might account to her for my constant employment at my pen; in order to take off her jealousy, that she was the subject of thy correspondence and mine; and that I might justify my secrecy and uncommunicativeness by her

own.

I proceeded therefore-That I loved familiar letter-writing, as I had more than once told her, above all the species of writing: it was writing from the heart, (without the fetters prescribed by method or study,) as the very word cor-respondence implied. Not the heart only; the soul was in it. Nothing of body, when friend writes to friend; the mind impelling sovereignly the vassal-fingers. It was, in short, friendship recorded; friendship given under hand and seal; demonstrating that the parties were under no apprehension of changing from time or accident, when they so liberally gave testimonies, which would always be ready, on failure or infidelity, to be turned against them.-For my own part, it was the principal diversion I had in her absence; but for this innocent amusement, the distance she so frequently kept me at would have been intolerable.

Sally knew my drift; and said, She had had the honour to see two or three of my letters, and of Mr Belford's ; and she thought them the most entertaining that she had ever read.

My friend Belford, I said, had a happy talent in the letter-writing way; and upon all subjects.

I expected my beloved would have been inquisitive after our subject; but (lying perdue, as I saw) not a word said she. So I touched upon this article myself.

Our topics were various and diffuse; sometimes upon literary articles [she was very attentive upon this]; sometimes upon the public entertainments; sometimes amusing each other with the fruits of the different correspondences we held with persons abroad, with whom we had contracted friendships; sometimes upon the foibles and perfections of our particular friends; sometimes upon our own present and future hopes; sometimes aiming at humour and raillery upon each other.-It might, indeed, appear to savour of vanity, to suppose my letters would entertain a lady of her delicacy and judgment; but yet I could not but say, that perhaps she would be far from thinking so hardly of me as sometimes she had seemed to do, if she were to see the letters which generally passed between Mr Belford and me. I hope, Jack, thou hast more manners, than to give me the lie, though but in thy heart.]

She then spoke; after declining my compliment, in such a manner, as only a person could do, who deserved it, she said, For her part, she

had always thought me a man of sense [a man of sense, Jack! What a niggardly praise!-and should therefore hope, that, when I wrote, it exceeded even my speech; for that it was impossible, be the letters written in as easy and familiar a style as they would, but that they must have that advantage from sitting down to write them which prompt speech could not always have. She should think it very strange, therefore, if my letters were barren of sentiment; and as strange, if I gave myself liberties upon premeditation, which could have no excuse at all, but from a thoughtlessness, which itself wanted excuse.-But if Mr Belford's letters and mine were upon subjects so general, and some of them equally (she presumed) instructive and entertaining, she could not but say, that she should be glad to see any of them; and particularly those which Miss Martin had seen and praised. This was put close.

I looked at her, to see if I could discover any tincture of jealousy in this hint; that Miss Martin had seen what I had not shewn to her. But she did not look it; so I only said, I should be very proud to shew her not only those, but all that passed between Mr Belford and me; but I must remind her, that she knew the condition.

No, indeed! with a sweet lip pouted out, as saucy as pretty; implying a lovely scorn, that yet can only be lovely in youth so blooming, and beauty so divinely distinguished.

How I long to see such a motion again! Her mouth only can give it.

But I am mad with love-yet eternal will be the distance, at the rate I go on; now fire, now ice, my soul is continually upon the hiss, as I may say. In vain, however, is the trial to quench what, after all, is unquenchable.

Pr'ythee, Belford, forgive my nonsense, and my Vulcan-like metaphors-Did I not tell thee, not that I am sick of love, but that I am mad with it? Why brought I such an angel into such a house? into such company?-And why do I not stop my ears to the sirens, who, knowing my aversion to wedlock, are perpetually touching that string?

I was not willing to be answered so easily; I was sure, that what passed between two such young ladies (friends so dear) might be seen by everybody; I had more reason than anybody to wish to see the letters that passed between her and Miss Howe; because I was sure they must be full of admirable instruction, and one of the dear correspondents had deigned to wish my entire reformation.

She looked at me as if she would look me through; I thought I felt eye-beam, after eyebeam, penetrate my shivering reins. But she was silent. Nor needed her eyes the assistance of speech.

Nevertheless, a little recovering myself, I hoped that nothing unhappy had befallen either Miss Howe or her mother. The letter of yesterday