London.

Well, give me the first salute of your fair bride;—and for your bride I'll ensure Miss Warley.—Why there is not a symptom but is in your favour.—She is nettled; can't you perceive it?—Once a studied disregard takes place, we are safe:—nothing will hurt you now, my Lord.—

You have been stuttering falsehoods.—From what I can gather, you have been hushing the Baronet at the expence of your own and Miss Warley's quiet.—If you have, never mind it; things may not be the worse.—Come away, I advise you; set out immediately.—See how she looks at parting.—But don't distress her;—I charge you not to distress her.—Should you play back her own cards, I will not answer for the pride of the sex.—

Sir James's consent once gained, and she rejects your proposals, lay all your letters to me on the subject before her.—I have them by me.—These cannot fail of clearing every doubt; she will be convinced then how sincerely you have loved her.—

You surprise me concerning Mr. Powis:—I thought he was settled in his government for life;—or rather, for the life of his father.—However, I am convinced his coming over will be no bad thing for you;—he has suffered too much from avarice, not to assist another so hardly beset.—

Was not his settling abroad an odd affair!—If he determined to remain single till he had an opportunity of pleasing himself, why did he leave England?—The mortification could not be great to have his overtures refused, where they were made with such indifference.—

As he has lived so many years a batchelor, I suppose there will be now an end to that great family.—

What a leveller is avarice! How does it pull down by attempting to raise? How miserable, as Seneca says, in the desire?—how miserable in attaining our ends?—The same great man alledges, that as long as we are solicitous for the increase of wealth, we lose the true use of it; and spend our time in putting out, calling in, and passing our accounts, without any substantial benefit, either to the world, or to ourselves.—

If you had ever any uneasiness on Bridgman's account, it must be now at an end.—Married, and has brought his bride to town.—What a false fellow!—From undoubted authority, I am assured the writings have been drawn six months:—so that every thing must be concluded between him and his wife, at the very time he talked to me of Miss Warley.—I wash my hands from any further acquaintance with concealed minds:—there must be something very bad in a heart which has a dark cloud drawn before it.—Virtue and innocence need no curtain:—they were sent to us naked;—it is their loss, or never possessing them,—that makes caution necessary, to hide from the world their destined place of abode.—Without entering a house, and being conversant with its inhabitants, how is it possible to say, if they are worthy or unworthy:—so if you knock, and are not admitted, you still remain doubtful.—But I am grown wise from experience;—and shall judge, for the future, where a heart is closely shut up, there is nothing in it worth enquiring after.

I go on Thursday to meet Risby, and conduct him to town. It would give us great joy, at our return, to shake you by the hand.—What can avail your staying longer in the midst of doubts, perplexities, racks, tortures, and I know-not-what. Have you any more terms to express the deadly disorder?—If you have keep them to yourself; I want not the confounded list compleat:—no; no, not I; faith.—