was very small indeed; but I could give some tidings from the dead, among whom I spent much time.—

"The great, the gay, the noble, and the sage,

And boastful youth, and narrative old age,"

are to be found there, from all parts of the kingdom. The most distinguished people come there to die; and the whole Cathedral at Bristol, and church at Clifton, are hung with marble tablets, with ingenious and affecting inscriptions: two only I will particularize. Mason to his Maria:

66

Take, holy earth, all that my soul held dear," &c. The other, a large tablet of exquisite white marble, in the form of a shield, with figures in low relief, admirably designed and finished. Surely you have seen Sterne's Letters to Eliza; if not, do, without delay, read them; it is her monument I am describing. The inscription is simply this:

"Sacred to the memory of ELIZABETH DRAPER,
Wife to GENERAL DRAPER,

Who died at Bristol in the 28th year of her age.
She was eminent for Genius and Benevolence."

There is an urn, with a drapery hanging in such loose, easy folds over it, that you are tempted to lift it up. On one side is a female figure of matchless grace and elegance, "her looks commercing with the skies ;" she leans pensively on the urn with one hand, and holds a flaming torch in the other. This represents Genius. On the other side is a figure of a less dignified air, but, "soft, modest, melancholy, female, fair," who seems to look compassionately into a nest of young birds, which she holds in one hand and feeds

with the other. This is Benevolence. Beyond these, on one side, a broken column denotes the fragility of the most perfect human forms, which moulder and decay like the noblest productions of human art and ingenuity; on the other, a palm, the emblem of immortality, appears like the undying spirit. But I must not indulge this descriptive mood, to which my journey northward would give full scope, had I leisure. Yet fain would I describe Devonshire, the English Arcadia; its pure streams, its pastoral hills, its rich vales, and softly genial climate; that, indeed, is the region of picturesque beauty. There I went to meet the spring, for there "she first unfolds her mantle of green." There, with a dear friend, Mary and I spent part of an April-like March, in the enjoyment of a felicity that I did not hope to taste during my earthly pilgrimage. Fain would I give you a faint idea of the undiminished excellence, the unwithering spirits, and unchilled affections of her

"Who heard with pain my parting sighs,

And long pursued me with her eyes;"

In short, of my own self-same Anne Ourry, now Mrs. Furzer. But a theme that wakes all the powers of imagination and memory, and makes the heart and eyes overflow at once, deserves, and shall have a letter to itself. The book of books has been delayed to my great vexation; for I believe, had it come in time, it might have obtained some notice in England, where Burns's mighty, overpowering genius has swept down the mounds of prejudice in its impetuous progress; nay, it has absolutely made way for a partiality for Scotch productions. This merit may, no doubt, be

divided with Campbell, who is, indeed, forte-piano in a very superior degree. My impression, however, thanks to the active zeal of my friends, is the largest ever printed in Scotland; but the same printer has the Court of Session Reports (formidable rivals indeed), to print all winter. They were busy with my beloved old Bard when I came away, and had only the subscribers' names (to me, and many others, the most interesting part) to finish. I know, by the mental pangs I have suffered for some days past, that the book is born, and you may expect to hear it some day squalling at your door. But, alas, those rough nurses, the critics, whose hands do not spare, nor their eyes pity! Bitterness may be borne,

"But what high heart could ever yet sustain

The public blast of insolence and scorn?"

And who believes or cares for that want of leisure, and numberless other wants which you know of, among which I wish, for the sake of my repose, want of feeling could be included in the present instance? The Edinburgh Review is (woe is me!) a work of ability, from which there lies no appeal. Those young censors, however, seem to have studied Shakspeare well; and to be emulous of the character of Cesario, of whom Olivia says,

"O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful,
In the contempt and anger of his lip!"

They seem to expect the public will regard their beautiful scorn with the same partiality.

am rather inclined, like Orsino, to

For my part, I

dread what they

may prove, "When time has sowed a grizzle on their case;" as they are already so apt to be scornful.

VOL. II.

R

I met two very agreeable women at Mr. Thomson's, one of whom is a sister of Mr. Mackay's futura; I like her much. Of your friend's choice, I can only say that I heard Mary speak highly of her, who knows her very well. Shut out, as she must be, in some measure, from the vain and busy world, by the peculiar nature of her duties, what a delicate and superior happiness must hers be, to whom is allotted the charge, so like that of a guardian angel, to preside, invisible to him, over the comforts and enjoyments of one of the worthiest and most amiable of mankind, still more beloved as he is more dependent!

Why have I not left room to tell you, how sweetly rural and sequestered I found my future dwelling at Woodend,* or of the transport that filled the dear family, both native and adopted, when I arrived at home ? The dear creatures are all improved. Isabella has done wonders, and my poor servants, too, worthy creatures, it would be ungrateful not to record their fidelity. One misfortune I have to lament; my little boy speaks nothing but English: I am so provoked at his losing the native tongue, though it appears to be the only loss which my family sustained in my absence. I regret your collateral losses; yet it is some consolation that your beloved sailor will be permitted to worship his household gods a while longer. Farewell. I have a thousand urgent demands on my attention. Though I cannot write, rest assured of the attachment of yours ever,

A. G.

* A sequestered but beautiful retreat near Stirling, to which the Author removed some months afterwards.

My dear Helen,

LETTER LXXVI.

TO MISS DUNBAR, BOATH.

Laggan, May 10, 1803.

Very sick and very busy as I am, I am so charmed with your goodness, in being so mindful of me under such a pressure, that I lose no time in thanking you, and in congratulating you on the recovery of a mother, a friend, and an exemplary model of every social and domestic virtue.-Do me the justice to believe, though urgently advised to take the measure you mention when I was in England, pressed for money in a land of strangers, that I not only rejected the proposal, but the rejection cost me so little effort, that I never once thought of telling you I had refused it. I should consider it as a stain to the memory of the most delicate and disinterested of human beings, if I, walking so long in the pure light of his spotless mind, should be induced to do anything that could bear the construction of disingenuity, to benefit his family. By the Divine blessing, there is little danger of their wanting what is necessary, and it is my duty to endeavour to limit their wishes within narrow bounds. I hope this will find you in some degree recovered, though it will take time to restore your usual strength; I do not add spirit, for that seems unimpaired. I know you now perfectly, in the simplicity and very similitude of Anne's description, for you are her daily theme.-Your patience in illness raises you not a little with me. I can