EDWARD MOORE.

• The

Fables

THE following story is extracted from the THE WORLD,' one of the periodicals of last century which has taken its place among what are called the British Classics. World' was conducted by Edward Moore, author of for the Female Sex,'The Gamester, a tragedy,' &c., with the assistance of the Earl of Chesterfield, and others. It came out in the years 1753-57, at the same time with The Adventurer,' by Dr Hawkesworth; yet these works differ greatly from each other in style and manner. Dr Hawkesworth (of whom we shall have occasion to speak in another part of this volume) was a heavy writer-though a superficial thinker. He formed his style upon Johnson's, and deceived himself, it is likely, as well as others, in the thought that he equalled that wonderful man, because he marched at the same ponderous pace. His chief assistants in The Adventurer' were, the great doctor himself,' who, though he gave almost all that is valuable in the work, added little to its liveliness-and Thomas Warton, a critical writer too much in earnest to be gay. The Adventurer,' therefore, is (with the exception of The Rambler) the most sombre, and (with no exception) the least witty of all the Essayists. 'The World,' on the other hand, is a most cheerful and humorous work. It contains several papers by the Earl of Chesterfield, in his own exquisite manner, and is supported with undeviating pleasantry by its conductor. Moore was a very unaffected writer-always easy and plain-although not

always graceful or in good taste. His great excellence lay in irony; and in that style, if he has not the strength of Swift, neither has he the bitterness. All his papers are more or less ironical, and the work, as a whole, is in better keeping than most periodicals.

The story that follows is perhaps the longest extract the book furnishes, in which the author forgets his own character, and his own peculiar vein; yet even here he does not quite refrain from indulging his sly irony.-What can be better, for instance, than the roguish observation he makes, after telling that the honour of a young widow was triumphed over?" I shall stop a moment here, to caution those virtuous widows who are my readers, against too has. ty a disbelief of this event. If they please to consider the situation of this lady, with poverty to alarm, gratitude to incite, and a handsome fellow to inflame, they will allow that in a world near six thousand years old, one such instance of frailty, even in a young and beautiful widow, may possibly have happened."

A DOMESTIC STORY.

AN eminent merchant in London, whose real name I shall conceal under that of Wilson, was married to a lady of considerable fortune and more merit. They lived happily together for some years, with nothing to disturb them but the want of children. The husband, who saw himself richer every day, grew impatient for an heir: and as time rather lessened than increased the hopes of one, he became by degrees indifferent and at last averse to his wife. This change in his affection was the heaviest affliction to her; yet so gentle was her disposition, that she reproached him only with her tears; and seldom with those, but when upbraidings and ill-usage made her unable to restrain them.

It is a maxim with some married philosophers, that the tears of a wife are apt to wash away pity from the heart of a husband. Mr Wilson will pardon me if I rank him, at that time, among these philosophers. He had lately hired a lodging in the country, at a small distance from town, whi

ther he usually retired in the evening, to avoid (as he called it) the persecutions of his wife.

In this cruel separation, and without complaint, she passed away a twelvemonth; seldom seeing him but when business required his attendance at home, and never sleeping with him. At the end of which time, however, his behaviour, in appearance, grew kinder; he saw her oftener, and began to speak to her with tenderness and compassion.

One morning, after he had taken an obliging leave of her, to pass the day at his country lodging, she paid a visit to a friend at the other end of the town; and stopping in her way home at a thread shop in a by-street near St. James's, she saw Mr Wilson crossing the way and afterwards knocking at the door of a genteel house over-against her, which was opened by a servant in livery, and immediately shut, without a word being spoken. As the manner of his entrance, and her not knowing he had an acquaintance in the street, a little alarmed her, she inquired of the shopwoman if she knew the gentleman who lived in the opposite house. You have just seen him go in, Madam,' replied the woman. 'His name is Roberts, and a mighty good gentleman, they say, he is. His Lady'At those words Mrs Wilson changed colour; and interrupting her- His Lady, Madam! I thought that—Will you give me a glass of water? This walk has so tired me- -Pray give me a glass of wa

ter

-I am quite faint with fatigue.' The good woman of the shop ran herself for the water, and by the additional help of some hartshorn that was at hand, Mrs Wilson became, in appearance, tolerably composed. She then looked over the threads she wanted, and having desired a coach might be sent for, I believe,' said she, 'you were quite frightened to see me look so pale; but I had walked a great way, and should certainly have fainted if I had not stepped into your shop-But you were talking of the gentleman over the way -I fancied I knew him; but his name is Roberts, you say. Is he a married man, pray?' The happiest in the world, Madam (returned the thread woman.) He is wonderfully fond of children, and to his great joy his lady is now lying in of her first child, which is to be christened this evening; and as fine a boy, they say it is, as ever was seen.' At this moment, and as good fortune would have it, for the saving a second dose of hartshorn, the coach that was sent for came to the door; into which Mrs Wilson immediately stept, after hesitating an apology for the trouble she had given ; and

in which coach we shall leave her to return home, in an agony of grief which herself has told me she was never able to describe.

The readers of this little history have been informed that Mr Wilson had a country lodging, to which he was supposed to retire almost every evening since his disagreement with his wife: but in fact, it was to his house near St. James's that he constantly went. He had indeed hired the lodgings above-mentioned, but from another motive than merely to shun his wife. The occasion was this.

As he was sauntering one day through the Bird Cage Walk in the Park; he saw a young woman sitting alone upon one of the benches, who, though plainly, was neatly dressed, and whose air and manner distinguished her from the lower class of women. He drew nearer to her without being perceived, and saw in her countenance, which innocence and beauty adorned, the most composed melancholy that can be imagined. He stood looking at her for some time; which she at last perceiving, started from her seat in some confusion, and endeavoured to avoid him. The fear of losing her gave him courage to speak to her. He begged pardon for disturbing her, and excused his curiosity by her extreme beauty, and the melancholy that was mixed with it.

It is observed by a very wise author, whose name and book I forget, that a woman's heart is never so brimful of affliction, but a little flattery will insinuate itself into a corner of it; and as Wilson was a handsome fellow, with an easy address, the lady was soon persuaded to replace herself upon the bench, and to admit him at her side. Wilson, who was really heart struck, made her a thousand protestations of esteem and friendship; conjuring her to tell him if his fortune or services could contribute to her happiness, and vowing never to leave her, till she made him acquainted with the cause of her concern.

Here a short pause ensued; and after a deep sigh and a stream of tears, the lady began thus.

If, Sir, you are the gentleman your appearance speaks you to be, I shall thank Heaven that I have found you. I am the unfortunate widow of an officer who was killed at Dettingen. As he was only a lieutenant, and his commission all his fortune, I married him against a mother's consent, for which she has disclaimed me. How I loved him, or he me, as he is gone for ever from me, I shall forbear to mention, though I am unable to forget. At my return to

D

England (for I was the constant follower of his fortunes) I obtained, with some difficulty, the allowance of a subaltern's widow, and took lodgings at Chelsea.

In this retirement I wrote to my mother, acquainting her with my loss and poverty, and desiring her forgiveness for my disobedience; but the cruel answer I received from her determined me, at all events, not to trouble her again.

I lived upon this slender allowance with all imaginable thrift, till an old officer, a friend of my husband, discovered me at church, and made me a visit. To this gentleman's bounty I have long been indebted for an annuity of twenty pounds, in quarterly payments. As he was punctual in these payments, which were always made me the morning they became due, and yesterday being quarter-day, I wondered I neither saw him nor heard from him. Early this morning I walked from Chelsea to inquire for him at his lodgings in Pall Mall; but how shall I tell you, Sir, the news I learnt there? This friend, this generous and disinterested friend, was killed yesterday in a duel in Hyde-park.' She stopt here to give vent to a torrent of tears, and then proceeded. I was so stunned at this intelligence that I knew not whither to go. Chance more than choice brought me to this place; where if I have found a benefactor-and indeed, Sir, I have need of one-I shall call it the happiest accident of my life.'

The widow ended her story, which was literally true, in so engaging a manner that Wilson was gone an age in love in a few minutes. He thanked her for the confidence she had placed in him, and swore never to desert her. He then requested the honour of attending her home, to which she readily consented, walking with him to Buckingham-gate, where a coach was called, which conveyed them to Chelsea. Wilson dined with her that day, and took lodgings in the same house, calling himself Roberts, and a single man. These were the lodgings I have mentioned before, where, by unbounded generosity and constant assiduities, he triumphed in a few weeks over the honour of this fair widow.

I shall stop a moment here, to caution those virtuous widows who are my readers, against too hasty a disbelief of this If they please to consider the situation of this lady, with poverty to alarm, gratitude to incite, and a handsome fellow to inflame, they will allow that in a world near six,

event.