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Blood-happy hang at his fair jutting chest,
But what was the consequence of this heroism! Happening one day to call at the house, I found the family in great confusion. Upon enquiry the father told me, PEG has had a desperate fall, that's the truth on't, but, thank God, she has only broke her leg ; 'twas a mercy 'twa’n't her neck. He then gave me a circumftantial account of the accident, concluding with lamenting, that the poor wench would certainly lose all the fine hunting season by it. It were needless perhaps to inform my readers, that Miss Peggy's fracture was at length with a great deal of difficulty and hazard reduced, but that she has continued a cripple ever since.
I shall not make any reflections on, or draw any inferences from this story, but leave it to the confideration of
fait hunting-readers, whom I would by all means advise to lay aside the spirit of the chace, together with the cap, the whip and all the masculine attire : theirs ought to be a very different chace, their excellencies of a far more delicate nature, than that of Springing a fence, or reining a fleed.
eyes no miserable light
On a -SECT of ACADEMICAL PHILOSOPHERS.
Queen's Coll. Oxon. : Brother STUDENT,
Aug. 4. 1750
heart; and as I am sensible, your labours have contributed more to that honour than many productions of our late controversialists, the S. T. P's, the L. L. D's, the F. R. S's, the C. M. L. S's, the &c. &c. &c. not excepted; I gladly embrace the opportunity of celebrating a very numerous sect of Philosophers, who are the greatest ornament and support of these learned societies.
You may remember, your predecessor the SPECTATOR has given us an account from a brother Cantab. of a very eminent sect of Philosophers styld Lowngers, whom he yet further dignifies with the appellation of Peripateticks; an appellation admirably adapted to the tenets they maintain, and expressive of the first principles of their philosophy.
Now the Philosophers I am speaking of, I would for the same reasons chuse to call Quietists; Rest being with these as fundamental a point in their system, as Motion is held to be by the above-mention’d Peripateticks.
Were we nicely to examine into the original rise of, Quietism, we should find the first feeds of it among the most famous Eoqov, or Sophs, of the ancients. ARISTOTLE was a Wrangler, consequently no Quietist; and SOCRATES was too much tongue-baited, XANTippe being, as indeed is every female Philosopher, a strong Anti-Quietist. Nor was Plato any favourer of this Sect; but DIOGENES, who liv'd in a tub, and Pyrrho, who would give way to nothing, with many others equally famous, appear to have had a notion of our Quietism, particularly EPICURUS, who maintain'd that the Gods themselves were thorough-pac'd Quietists. (Vide STANLEY's Lives of the Philosophers throughout.) But to leave the ancients to themselves, it is very certain that Qui
etism was never thoroughly understood till our colleges were founded, as it should seem, for the encouragement of Quietisms many of our Professors, Heads of Houses; Fellows, Lecturers, Tutors, &c. having been remarkable Quietists.
Now the difference in opinion between this feet and that of the Peripateticks is as follows. The one maintain a circular motion to be the most natural; the other are fix'd advocates for an absolute rest in the nature of things. But both of them agree in admitting for their first and grand principle, that property inherent in all boies, which is call'd, the vis inertia, or desire of doing nothing.
Our Universities, I may venture to say, have a numerous party in both of these fects. The juniors are observ'd to be chiefly inclin'd to Lownging, while the senior part fall naturally into the other system. It is further remarkable, that the greatest sticklers for Peripateticism, as they advance in the University gradually slacken and at length settle into a confirmd Quietism.
I shall fend you by and by a more particular account of these Philosophers; being myself, as it were, in a middle ftate at present between both: but (having fill'd my paper) I muft now conclude myself, dear brother,
Yours very affectionately,
The History of a CLERGYMAN'S DAUGHTER,
In a LETTER from a LADY to her FRIEND.
ing your letters as usual; which I should have done; for I am too sensible of your favours and friendship never willingly to give you the least offence. I know you expect, when I write, I should send you the news of the neighbourhood; and such an accident, such a misfortune has befallen one of Numb, VIIL
our particular acquaintance, as I am afraid will break your tender heart, when you hear it, as it has almost done mine. 'Tis poor Sally Brown I ant speaking of, the only child of that good man, and your much valued friend, the Rev. Mr. Brown and his lady, to whom we have been endear'd by a thousand thousand acts of friendship. 'Tis of her I am going to write, who has been killd, most inhumanly murder'd by that worst of villians, that devil Sir Thomas.
I have often sat down to write this to you, and been as often interrupted. Whenever I attempt it, methinks I see that venerable good man the father, and that amiable dear woman the mother, standing before me with their unhappy offspring mangled and bloody, as if I had been privy to the horrid deed. Her mother gave me charge of her at her death, and all the care I could I took of her ; but what could I do? I could not restrain the lawless luft of a designing villain.
The living of our parish, you know, is but small, not above 40 1. a year, yet as Mr. Brown was a pious good man, and greatly beloved by the gentry round about, he lived very well, and brought up his daughter in a genteel manner--an pocr Sally! --and would have done very well for her, had it pleased God to have spared his life a few years longer. But he died and left his dear widow and child with only about 60 l. after their debts were paid.
Mrs. Brown, after her husband's death, founů herself greatly disappointed in the expectations she had formed of her friends ; for now hardly any body took notice of the poor lady or her daughter, but Madam Libb, Mrs. Johnfon and myself. Some of the great people, indeed, who had often been merry and familiar at their house in the husband's time, would stop their coaches, and ask after madam and mils; but then it was done in such a manner, as plainly shewd it was only for form's fake.
Sixty pounds, you know, was no fum to maintain two people, and therefore some business was to be thought of for their support. As there were a good many children in the neighbourhood, and at that time nobody to teach them, Mrs.
Brotun set up a school and took in plain-work. This was like to do very well, but before she had been in this business two months, she was seized with a violent fever, which depriv'd her dear daughter of the best mother in the world, and you and me of the most sincere friend. She was too well instruct. ed by her husband, and fraught with too much virtue and good sense to be at all disconcerted at the appearance of death. Her peace, however, was disturb'd whenever her daughter came in sight, then would the tears run plentifully down her cheeks. Just before the expired, taking me by the hand, “ My dear Mrs. Plumber, said she, my old and my “ constant friend, have an eye to my daughter, and take her “ under your direction. She has virtuous, religious, and good dispositions ; but this is a wide world and a wicked
Her beauty too may help to ruin her; so, dear “ Mrs. Plumber, take care of her. God will bless you
for so it, and return it to your children an hundred fold.” She then call'd her daughter, kiss’d and wept over her, and soon expired.
This illness, together with the apothecary's bill and funeral expences reduced her little stock to 30 1. which was all the money poor Miss Sally had to breed her up and maintain her. My husband, however, thinking to get some collection made for her among
the gentry, sent her to a school at some diftance; but failing in that intended collection, and hearing that Sir Thomas's housekeeper wanted a companion and allistant, she was by the advice of every body taken from schoo and sent thither.
Here she behaved in her usual engaging manner, and acquired the love and esteem of the whole family; and among the rest Sir Thomas himself, who was continually making her presents, and taking her to walk with him in the garden. Sir Thomas is indeed a young man; but as he had always carefs’d and, to appearance, esteem'd the girl's father, this was considered by the family as no other than a
kind membrance of his virtues, a debt paid to a deceased friend. Time however foon discovered the true reason of his civi