had once eagerly courted. His affairs were at laſt in ſuch a deſperate ſtate, that he was obliged, reluctantly, to accept of an invitation from his brother, who with his wife, a weak fine lady, intended to ſpend ſome time on the continent; his daughter was, of courſe, to be of the party.
The reſtraint of obligations did not ſuit his temper, and feeling himself dependent, he imagined every one meant to inſult him.
Some ſarcaſms were thrown out one day by a gentleman, in a large company; they were not perſonal, yet he took fire. His ſore mind was eaſily hurt, he reſented them; and heated by wine, they both ſaid more than their cool reaſon would have ſuggeſted. Mr. Lofty imagined his honour was wounded, and the next morning ſent him a challenge. They met—and he killed his antagoniſt, who, dying, pardoned him, and declared that the ſentiments which had given him ſo much offence fell from him by accident, and were not levelled at any perſon.
The dying man lamented, that the thread of a thoughtleſs life had been ſo ſuddenly
