turned fond of a system in which she learned, that the quickness of her temper was not a vice, as some would have her to believe, but at worst a pardonable, or rather amiable weakness, naturally attendant (as some mote of weakness will ever attend all human excellence) on a heart so much more alive than that of other people; and which often disguised her anger, or her spite, under the more pleasing form of excessive delicacy; a delicacy more unfortunate for herself than for others, since it rendered this or t'other small foible in her acquaintance insufferable, and distressed her with circumstances of minute offence, beyond the conception of vulgar and ordinary souls.

It was thus, Sir, that her eyes were early shut upon a part of her composition, which it much behoved her to guard against, and which is now the cause why, with several good qualities, and in spite of many good actions, she is the plague of all who live with her, and has hardly one real friend in the world. So long indeed as she was young and beautiful, and the world prospered with her, these were circumstances to keep her in good humour with herself, and to hinder the little feverish fits which she was subject to from changing into a settled habit. But Miss Nettletop has met with crosses in life, as who is there that passes through life without them? She was married to a Mr. Tempest, a man of large fortune, but dissolute manners. They lived but uncomfortably together, if the world may be believed; and he has now for some time resided apart from her, and abroad. She never had a child; and she was some years ago afflicted with a severe and tedious illness, which neither her health nor her looks are ever likely to recover. She is now, at any rate, of that time of life, when the love of admiration becomes rather a troublesome companion to one's self, and

N° 55ridiculous to others. In these circumstances, it is obvious how fast her irritable habit of mind must gain strength, and how fatal it must prove, both to her own peace, and to that of all within her walls. One half her time is spent in bemoaning her misfortunes. They are literally her business and her entertainment: She ruminates all day her dreadful fate; nor is there any thing that would more mortally offend her than an attempt to depreciate her miseries.Hence, Sir, she is quite over-run with melancholy, as she calls it; or rather (to call things by their right names) with discontent and chagrin for her affliction, whatever she may think, is by no means of Viola's kind, that preys and consumes in silence; on the contrary, from her original cast of temper, her melancholy exerts itself full as much on those who are about her as on herself. She seems indeed convinced, that her unparalleled distresses should render her the object of universal interest (an expectation in which she is by no means always gratified), and that between these and her strength of feeling, which renders every thing a torture to her that is not pleasant, she has gained an unquestionable right to have her own way in all things and in all companies. The result of which is, that sore to the annoyance of all her dependents, and I am afraid not much to her own comfort, every whim and humour, and every suggestion of passion, are implicitly obeyed, under the name of Sensibility.

You will easily understand that it is among her domestics this forwardness of temper is most severely felt I am sorry to add, I am myself the person that chiefly does penance under it. For though I sit at table with the mistress of the house, and am not called by my Christian name like the other servants, nor indeed receive like them any recompense for my services, I am, in truth, no other than a ser

vant, and my peculiar department is understood to be, that of keeping Mrs. Tempest quiet, or easy, as it is called; a task far harder than falls to the lot of any other of the household. I strive all I can to please her: but alas! to what purpose, when I have hourly the mortification to find, that I shock and discompose some refined and sublimated feeling, which I have not the least conception of? How to behave on these occasions I know not. For if I say nothing, I am sullen: if I explain but ever so gently, my violence is intolerable; and if I make acknowledgments, my submission is feigned; which I find, to a person of sentiment, is of all things the most provoking.

I am afraid I grow tedious; but it is some relief to speak of one's hardships. The publication of them, if of no use to me, may possibly be a lesson to some others; for I am afraid Mrs. Tempest may not be the only lady who gives the name of strong feelings to her strong passions, and lays claim to su perior tenderness, on the ground of feeling more than common for herself. I remain, Sir, with all respect,

Yours, &c.

HANNAH WAITFORT.

I HAVE taken the first opportunity of publishing Mrs. Waitfort's letter, as I sincerely compassionate the unhappiness of her situation. Nothing is so provoking as this refined ill-humour, which takes the merit of sensibility from selfishness, and feels for every distress but those which it might cure.

Sentiment and feeling, however, had their day, but are now almost quite out of fashion. Mrs. Tempest may be told, that she might as well come

N°55 to a modern assembly in the stiff brocade of her youthful birth-day balls, as put on, in these times, the affectation of sensibility for an ornament. Our fashionable ladies have brought up Indifference with their gauzes and feathers; both (in the words of my friend the milliner of Prince's-Street) light easy wear, and fit for all seasons.'

But not equally fit for all conditions. The highest fashions must always properly belong to certain orders of the people. This ease and indifference, in their greatest extent, should only be worn by privileged persons. It might not be amiss, if, like the rouge of the French, they were put on by married women only, who may be supposed to bestow all their feelings at home; or by ladies of very high rank, who (as travellers tell us of the calm that reigns on the summit of the Alps) have got into a superior region, undisturbed by the emotions of ordinary life. Something too might be claimed by beauty, to which coldness or indifference is perhaps a safe, and has long been an acknowledged attendant. All things considered, I think the young lady who sat in one of the side-boxes t'other evening, who was so immoderately diverted with the distresses of the Tragedy, and preserved such an obstinate gravity during the drolleries of the farce, carried her no-feelings a little too far.

Ꮓ

N° 56. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 25, 1786.

Quæ virtus et quanta, boni, sit vivere parvo,
Discite, non inter lances mensasque nitentes.

SIR,

To the AUTHOR of the LOUNGER.

HOR.

I TROUBLED you some time ago with a letter from the country; now that I am come to town, I use the freedom to write to you again. I find the same difficulty in being happy, with every thing to make me so, here as there. When I tell this to my country friends, they won't believe me. Lord! to see how the Miss Homespuns looked when they came to take leave of me the morning we set out for Edinburgh!-I had just put on my new riding-habit which my brother fetched me from London; and my hat, with two green and three white feathers; and Miss Jessy Homespun admired it so much! and when I let her put it on, she looked in the glass, and said with a sigh, how charming it was!—I had a sad headach with it all morning, but I kept that to myself. And do, my dear, (said she,) write sometimes to us poor moping creatures, in the country. But you won't have leisure to think of us; you will be so happy, and so much amused.' At that moment my brother's post coach rattled up to the door, and the poor Homespuns cried so when we parted! To be sure, they thought that a town life, with my brother's fortune to procure all its amusements, must be quite delightful.Now, Sir, to let you know how I have found it.