Presently, after this was at an end, my mother died, and I was left at liberty to mourn her loss awhile.  At length my aunt (with whom I was when you last saw me) commanded me to wait on her at London; and when I came, she told me how much I was in her care, how well she loved me for my mother’s sake, and something for my own, and drew out a long set speech which ended in a good motion (as she call’d it); and truly I saw no harm in’t, for by what I had heard of the gentleman I guessed he expected a better fortune than mine.  And it proved so.  Yet he protested he liked me so well, that he was very angry my father would not be persuaded to give L1000 more with me; and I him so ill, that I vowed if I had L1000 less I should have thought it too much for him.  And so we parted.  Since, he has made a story with a new mistress that is worth your knowing, but too long for a letter.  I’ll keep it for you.

After this, some friends that had observed a gravity in my face which might become an elderly man’s wife (as they term’d it) and a mother-in-law, proposed a widower to me, that had four daughters, all old enough to be my sisters; but he had a great estate, was as fine a gentleman as ever England bred, and the very pattern of wisdom.  I that knew how much I wanted it, thought this the safest place for me to engage in, and was mightily pleased to think I had met with one at last that had wit enough for himself and me too.  But shall I tell you what I thought when I knew him (you will say nothing on’t):  ’twas the vainest, impertinent, self-conceited, learned coxcomb that ever yet I saw; to say more were to spoil his marriage, which I hear is towards with a daughter of my Lord Coleraine’s; but for his sake I shall take care of a fine gentleman as long as I live.

Before I have quite ended with him, coming to town about that and some other occasions of my own, I fell in Sir Thomas’s way; and what humour took I cannot imagine, but he made very formal addresses to me, and engaged his mother and my brother to appear in’t.  This bred a story pleasanter than any I have told you yet, but so long a one that I must reserve it till we meet, or make it a letter of itself.

The next thing I designed to be rid on was a scurvy spleen that I have been subject to, and to that purpose was advised to drink the waters.  There I spent the latter end of the summer, and at my coming home found that a gentleman (who has some estate in this country) had been treating with my brother, and it yet goes on fair and softly.  I do not know him so much as to give you much of his character:  ’tis a modest, melancholy, reserved man, whose head is so taken up with little philosophic studies, that I admire how I found a room there.  ’Twas sure by chance; and unless he is pleased with that part of my humour which other people think the worst, ’tis very possible the next new experiment may crowd me out again.  Thus you have all my late adventures, and almost as much as this paper will