SELECTIONS

FROM THE

CORRESPONDENCE

OF

Mrs. HAMILTON.

To Mrs.

Bath, April, 1801, How sweetly, yet how forcibly, did my dearest friend's kindly solicitous letter touch my heart! I feel that I am not worthy half of what you feel for me; and yet there is not an earthly good that I would not sooner part with than one particle of your affection. I hasten to put an end to all your anxiety on my account, by giving you the assurance of my complete recovery. Clifton did much more for me than I expected: even the chilling breezes, so much complained of by others, were to me medicinal; and though they

prevented me from going out to enjoy the beauties of the country, had the happy effect of restoring my lungs to a proper who was tone. Our poor friend

my only visitor, lost his wife whilst I remained there; after which I was quite in solitude. But books, for a certain length of time, are a charming substitute for common conversation. I do not know that I ever read one from which my mind received a higher degree of pleasure than Currie's Life of Burns. To me, its charm was enhanced by a thousand pleasing re'collections, a thousand associations, that gave a strong additional interest to every word. The strength of Burns's feelings, the character of his mind, had excited an enthusiastic admiration, at a period when my own enthusiastic feelings were in perfect unison with those of the poet; and in him alone did I meet with the expression of a sensibility in which I could perfectly sympathise: in his emotions there was a strength, an energy, that came home to my heart;

while the tender sorrows of all other poets had to me appeared mawkish and insipid. Even the strong light in which he saw the ridiculous, was, I fear, too agreeable to me. The idea I then formed of his mind has been confirmed by Dr. Currie's delineation of it. A mind conscious of superior powers, but placed by fortune in an inferior situation, must not only have uncommon magnanimity, but a judgment highly cultivated, to insulate itself, and stand, in a manner, alone in society. Poor Burns! wounded pride sought for solace in gratifications which called forth his animal spirits; these, unnaturally excited, called forth passion, and the man became degraded from the very same cause that would in other circumstances have exalted him; for I am persuaded, that had Burns been placed in an independent station, he would never have sunk into vice. He is, however, only one of a thousand instances which incontestably prove the inutility of

genius, either to promote the happiness of the possessor, or to produce much good to. society. It is in vain that we look to second causes all leads us to the Almighty Ruler, who adjusts the balance. But where am I wandering? I began only to say that I liked the book, and I have been beguiled into writing an essay.

To Miss B

Rivers-street, Bath, Oct. 10. 1803. Surely my dear friend must ere now have given me up as the most ungrateful of mortals, and concluded that the cold air of the north had congealed every genial feeling of the heart. There, however, the conclusion would be erroneous; for that heart is as warm, and as warmly attached to its dear B as ever; and soon I hope to have an opportunity of convincing her of this truth by viva voce evidence at the fireside in Russel-street. It is time to give some account of myself, and of my wanderings, which are now happily concluded,

and at present appear to my mind like a pleasant dream. When you know more of our Edinburgh friends, you will be better able to calculate the regret we felt at leaving them; but I cannot describe it.

On the 23d of August we bade farewell to the chosen seat of genius, and proceeded by Lanark, in order to gratify ourselves with a view of the celebrated falls of the Clyde, which more than answered our expectations, though they were very highly raised. Never did any of Nature's works produce in my mind such emotions of sublimity, such solemn and awful delight. Never can the impression made in the two hours we spent there be obliterated. But, alas! we were forced to recollect, that the wearied horses and their driver partook not of our feelings, and, in compassion to them, were obliged to proceed. The country was, however, still interesting, and our whole journey to Keswick delightful.