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THE

HISTORY

O F

Mrs. Marinda Benlow,

With NOTES.
AND

Some Occasional Remarks by the Way.

In TWO LETTERS
T O

HUGOLIN JEWKS, Esq;

The characters of the more considerable personages in moral history, do not only demonstrate the possibility of attaining to all the perfections attainable by men; but powerfully upbraid our indolence, and so rouse our emulation. They set to our view the strength, the force, the comprehensiveness into which our judgment, and other intellectual faculties may be improved, and exhibit the most affecting instances of what is yet a higher qualification than the finest imagination, the most tenacious memory, or the best replenished understanding, that absolute command of our pajstons, and that god-like benignity of foul, which constitute true virtue, and recommend us to the favor and acceptance of a wife and holy God. Turnbull.

I am always for the builders who bring some addition to our knowledge, or at least some new thing to our thoughts. The finders of faults, the confuters and pullers down, do not only erect a barren and useless triumph upon human ignorance, but advance us nothing in the acquisition of truth.

Locke to Molyneaux.

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THE

HISTORY

O F

Mrs. B E N L 0 W.

OUR letter, dear Jewis, I had the pleasure of receiving; and that you should not suspect me of neglecting you, I postpone my journey to Cbadfon, to answer your questions. To the best of my Power, I will give you a monument of my friendship, though at present my condition is such, that I cannot subtract too much from the organs of the intellect, to give to those of motion. You shall have all I know, relating to the lady you inquire aster. You shall have, by the way, a few occasional observations.

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Adcfcrip- In the year I travelled many hun

n-sarm, in dred miles to Vint antient monuments, and the moun- discover curious thjnes; and as I wandered,

taint of . ° % n •. ... - * _

Northum- to this purpose, among the vast hills or Nornearthc thumberland, fortune conducted me one borders of evening, in the month of June, when I c° a"' knew not where to rest, to the sweetest retirement my eyes have ever beheld. This is HaH-fartm It is a beautiful vale, surrounded with rocks, forest, and water. I found at the upper end of it the prettiest thatched house in the world, and a garden of the most artful confusion I had ever seen. The little mansion. was covered on every side with the finest, flowery green's. The streams, all round, were murmuring and falling a thousand ways. All the kinds of singing birds were here collected, and in high harmony on the sprays. The ruins of an abby enhanse the beauties of this place: they appear at the distance of four hundred yards from the house: and as some great trees are now grown up among the remains, and a river winds between the broken walls, the view is solemn —the picture fine (A). Adescrip- When I came up to the house*, the first:

m°L«. %ure 1 saw was tne latty whose story I am going to relate. She had the charms of an angel, but her dress quite plane, and clean, like a country maid. Her person appeared

faultless, faultless, and of the middle size; between the disagreeable extremes: Her face a sweet oval, and her complexion the brunette of the bright rich kind : Her mouth, like a rosebud> that is just beginning to blow, and a fugitive dimple, by fits, would lighten,' and disappear: The finest passions 'were always passing in her face; and in' her long, even, chesnut eyes, there was a fluid fire,: sufficient for half a dozen pair:' :; ■' •"';:I>: ■' ■'•

She had a volume of Sbakejpear in her hand, as I came softly towards her, having left my horse at a distance with my servant, and her attention was so much engaged with the extremely poetical and fine lines which Titania speaks in the third act of the Midsummer night's dream (a), that she did not

B 2 see

(a) Be kind and courteous to this gentleman, Hop in his walks, and gambol in his eyes, Feed him with apricocks, and dewberrys, With purple grapes, green figs, and mulbefrys; • The honey bags steal from the humble bees; And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs, \ And light them at the fiery glow-worms eyes; To have my love to bed, and to arise, And pluck the wings from painted butterfly es, T o fan the moon-beams from his sleeping eyes. Nod to him elves, and do him courtesies.

As the beautys of thought are joyned with those of expression, in these lines, one would think it impossible that any thing that has but the lest humanity, should be dull enough not to relish, not to be moved, nay charmed

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