University of Virginia Library

LETTER III.
HARRINGTON to WORTHY.

I CANNOT but laugh at your
dull fermons, and yet I find something in
them not altogether displeasing; for this
reason I permit you to prate on. “Weigh
matters maturely!” Ha! ha! why art thou
not arrayed in canonicals! “What do I design
to do with her?” Upon my word, my
sententious friend, you ask mighty odd
questions. I see you aim a stroke at the
foundation upon which the pillar of my

new system is reared—and will you strive
to batter down that pillar? If you entertain
any idea of executing such a task, I forefee
it will never succeed, and advise you timely
to desist. What! dost thou think to topple
down my scheme of pleasure? Thou mightest
as well topple down the pike of Teneriffe.

I SUPPOSE you will be ready to ask, why,
if I love Harriot, I do not marry her—
Your monitorial correspondence has so
accustomed me to reproof, that I easily anticipate
this piece of impertinence—But who
shall I marry? That is the question. Harriot
has no father—no mother—neither is
there aunt, cousin, or kindred of any degree
who claim any kind of relationship to
her. She is companion to Mrs. Francis,

and, as I understand, totally dependent on
that lady. Now, Mr. Worthy, I must take
the liberty to acquaint you, that I am not
so much of a republican as formally to
wed any person of this class. How laughable
would my conduct appear, were I to
trace over the same ground marked out by
thy immaculate footsteps—To be heard
openly acknowledging for my bosom companion,
any daughter of the democratick
empire of virtue!

To suppose a smart, beautiful girl, would
continue as a companion to the best lady in
Christendom, when she could raise herself to
a more eligible situation, is to suppose a folecism—She
might as well be immured in
a nunnery. Now, Jack, I will shew you

my benevolent scheme; it is to take this
beautiful sprig, and transplant it to a more
favourable foil, where it shall flourish and
blossom under my own auspices. In a word,
I mean to remove this fine girl into an elegant
apartment, of which she herself is to be
the fole mistress. Is not this a proof of my
humanity and of heart? But I
know the purport of your answer—So pray
thee keep thy comments to thyself, and be
sparing of your compliments on this part of
my conduct—for I do not love flattery. A
month has elapsed since my arrival in town.
What will the revolution of another moon
bring forth?