accounts, pays the bills. and overlooks the men within doors, has been in the family nineteen years; and the other, who has the care of the stables, and of every thing without, has lived with us ten years. I rise at seven, but I do not go down till nine, when the bell rings, and my whole family meet me at chapel. After prayers, we go to breakfast: any friend who happens to be with me, my chaplain, and myself, have ours in the little library; the rest in their respective eating rooms. About eleven, if the weather permits, we go and walk in the park, or take the air in the coach; but if it is too bad for either, we return to our various occupations. At three we dine; sit perhaps an hour afterwards, and then separate. We meet at eight for prayers; after which we adjourn again to the library, where somebody usually reads aloud, till half an hour past nine, when we sup; and we always part before eleven. This to the gay world, would seem a melancholy, monastic life. I cannot be supposed to have chosen it from ignorance of the splendour and gaiety of a court, but from a thorough experience that they can give no solid happiness; and I find myself more calmly pleased in my present way of living, and more contented, than I ever was in the bloom and pomp of my youth. I am no longer dubious what point to pursue. There is but one proper for the decline of life; and indeed the only one worth the anxiety of a rational creature at any age: but how do the fire of youth, and the flattery of the world, blind our eyes, and mislead our fancies after a thousand imaginary pleasures, which are sure to disappoint us in the end!

I condole with you on the loss of Mr. Price; for a faithful servant is always a valuable possession.

I dare say, lady Northumberland did not know how near she was to you, or she would not have passed by, without inquiring after you. Her little boy is called Algernon, after his grand-papa: and he is, though less handsome, the counterpart of his uncle, lord Beauchamp; his innocence, his temper, and his voice,

are just the same, and every motion of his body; judge if I am fond of him.

I have hardly room to subscribe myself, dear madam, ever faithfully yours,

FRANCES SOMERSET.

LETTER II.

To lady Luxborough.

Piercy Lodge, Nov. 23, 1753.

I did, indeed, dear madam, begin to despair of having the honour, and (what I felt more sensibly) the pleasure, of hearing from you again. I am so subject to fall into errors, that I was afraid some unguarded expression in my last letter had given you offence; and yet my heart bore witness, how far I had been from intending it.

I have been extremely ill, the whole summer, and for some weeks I was believed to be in great danger; but, by the blessing of God upon Dr. Shaw's prescriptions, I am at present, though lean and ill-favoured, much better. I am still obliged to be carried up and down stairs, for want of strength and breath to carry myself: but I have great reason to bless God for the ease I now enjoy. When we come to the last broken arches of Mirza's bridge, rest from pain must bound our ambition, for pleasure we cannot expect in this world where I have no more a notion of laying schemes to be executed six months, than I have six years hence; which, I believe, helps to keep my spirits in an even state of cheerfulness, to enjoy the satisfactions that present themselves, without anxious solicitude about their duration. We have lived to an age that necessarily shows us the earth crumbling under our feet; and, as our journey seems approaching towards the verge of life, is it not more natural to cast

our eyes to the prospect beyond it, than, by a retrospective view, to recall the troublesome trifles that made our road difficult or dangerous?

I have spent the last three weeks very agreeably. The first of them the bishop of Oxford and Mrs. Talbot passed with us; and when they went away, they had the goodness to leave Miss Talbot, whose character I think you must have heard. She is all that the world has said of her, as to an uncommon share of understanding: but she has other charms, which I imagine you will join with me in giving the preference even to that; a mild and equal temper, an unaffectedly pious heart, and a universal good will to her fellowcreatures. She censures nobody; she despises nobody; and whilst her own life is a pattern of goodness, she does not exclaim with bitterness against vice. We spend a good deal of the day in our own rooms; but our time is much broken in upon. Soon after nine we meet in the chapel; when prayers are over we go to breakfast, after that we work, whilst Mr. Cowslad, or my chaplain, reads aloud. At eleven we go, if the weather is tolerable, to take the air for two hours at least, which Dr. Shaw insists upon my doing. The moment we get out of the coach, we see no more of one another till three, when the dinner is punctually upon the table. We retire at five. At eight, we go to prayers; after which we adjourn into the little library, where we work till supper, and the gentlemen read to us, as in the morning; and it is a rule to be all in our rooms a quarter before eleven.

It is now more than time to return you thanks for the trouble you have taken in conveying to me Mr. Shenstone's poem. I have written to him by this post. I could not write sooner, because his letter was only dated Leasowes; and I could not find out his post-town, without sending to Mrs. Stanley, whom I do not visit, and who lives twelve miles from me. I have expressed my gratitude in the best manner I am able; but I am under the necessity of declining the

honour which he intended me. I have begged him to fill up the blanks with stars, or what he pleases, whenever my name, or that of Piercy Lodge, was deEsigned; and I hope he will oblige me.

I am, dear madam,

Your most obliged and obedient servant,

FRANCES SOMERSET.

CHAPTER VII.

LETTERS TO AND FROM DR. WARBURTON, BISHOP OF GLOUCESTER.

Dear sir,

LETTER I.

Dr. Warburton to Dr. Doddridge.

February 14, 1743.

I should not have been so long in making my best acknowledgments for your last kind letter, had not my absence from home, and a late unhappy domestic affair, prevented me, and engrossed all my thoughts, the misfortunes of an excellent sister and her children, by her husband's ill success in trade, though attended to with the utmost honesty and sobriety. He has been a considerable benefactor to the public; and his creditors are at last no losers, but he himself is undone. I do not know whether this is an alleviation, or an aggravation, of the misfortune. But I can tell you with the utmost truth, that I share with this distresse sister and her children (who all live with me) the small revenue it has pleased God to bless me with;

and this I do with much greater satisfaction than others spend theirs on their pleasures. I can assure you my chief concern on this occasion, was for an incomparable mother, whom I feared the misfortunes of a favourite daughter would too much affect. But, I thank God, religion, that religion of which you make so amiable drawings in all your works, was more than a support to her. This is a subject I never choose to talk of; yet I could not forbear mentioning it to a man whom I much esteem, and whose heart I know to be right.

It was with great concern I found Mrs. Doddridge so ill at Bath. I know the grief this must have occasioned you. But I know your sufficiency. I trust in God she has by this time received the expected benefit from the waters. It was by accident that I saw her name in Leake's book, (for then I had not received your last letter,) a little before I left Mr. Allen's. I visited her twice. The first time, she was going out to drink the waters; the second time, a visiting: so I had not the pleasure of much of her company. You may be assured, I would not hinder her the first time; and I made a conscience not to do it the second: for it was a new acquaintance she was going to make; a matter perhaps as useful to her amusement, while she stayed at Bath, as the other for her health.

Thus you see, my good friend, we have all something to make us think less complacently of the world. Religion will do great things. It will always make the bitter waters of Marah wholesome and palatable. But we must not think it will usually turn water to wine, because it once did so. Nor is it fit it should, unless this were our place of rest. I do the best I can, and I should, I think, do the same, if I were a mere pagan, to make life passable. To be always lamenting the miseries of it, or always seeking after the pleasures of it, equally takes us off from the work of our salvation. And though I am extremely cautious what sect I follow in religion, yet any in philosophy