Dear Madam,

LETTER VIII.

TO MRS. MACINTOSH.

Laggan, August 21, 1792.

The deep sense I feel of the kindness expressed in your much-valued letter, and the consolation which the acquisition of regard, from a character so estimable, affords, even under the pressure of my present affliction,* encourages me to write to you, even now, when I am very unfit to communicate my ideas, except where they will be received with the most partial indulgence. I know it is unbecoming, nay, almost unchristianly for me, to use the emphatic language of sorrow, in speaking of an infant's happy transition from the dangers and snares of this chequered scene to a state of stable felicity. She is departed before she has known sin or sorrow, and before we could have room to judge whether those beautiful blossoms of sprightliness, generosity, and tenderness, which charmed us so much in her enticing little ways, would ever ripen into the expected fruit. My reason not only acquiesces in the justice of the dispensation, but my heart so far acknowledges its mercy, that, could a wish bring my darling back to my bosom, I think I would not form that wish. She was so unusually strong and healthy, that we dreamt not of

* The death of her infant daughter, Petrina, which had taken place about a week previously, in the third year of her age.

fear till it became too late. She spoke to me in a clear, distinct voice, showing tokens of the fondest affection, three hours before her death. Thus, you see, the stroke was very sudden. Then we had such delight in her; not only for her own sake, but for the great resemblance she bore to her dear departed brother, whose every look and gesture was restored in her; so that her death was just like losing him over again. It is also so melancholy to see the poor thing that remains, wandering like a ghost, and constantly bewailing her sister.

There are few things that could gratify me more than to find you so cordially interested in poor Charlotte. I am not a little pleased to find your sentiments and mine concerning her, coincide so entirely. Her integrity of heart, her sincerity, and general rectitude of intention, are such as, to one that knows her intimately, suffice to ensure esteem, and even affection, beyond all that shines, and all that pleases in those, whom happier fortunes, and a more finished education have set in a fairer point of view. I am very well satisfied to find that she is going to stay for some time at Mr. Douglas's. I hope she will take particular care to please those who are so well worth pleasing. I conclude, from her thorough confidence in you, from whom no thought of her heart is concealed, that you know of a visitor whom she daily expects. This visitor is certainly an object of compassion; and the attachment, from the beginning so singular and romantic, seems daily increasing. I have so very good an opinion of the person in question, and so very bad an opinion of the safety or

stability of such premature engagements, that what to judge or determine I am utterly at a loss. I leave her, then, entirely to your direction, who, with equal warmth of good-will towards her, have more judgment, experience, and knowledge of the world.

I have received Mr. Macintosh's friendly letter, and feel the full force of his judicious and affectionate consolation. The hope of seeing you here at no very distant period, pleases me even now, when very few things, indeed, have power to interest your obliged and faithful, &c.,

A. G.

LETTER IX.

TO MISS OURRY, LONDON.

Laggan, September 3, 1792.

Never did a cordial come more opportunely to a poor creature fainting with weakness, than my dearest Anne's kind letter, to soothe my agonizing heart, and divert, for a little, my attention from one sad object, which fixes and engrosses it, in spite of my prayers and endeavours. Petrina, my lovely Petrina, the sweet image of my dear lamented Peter, is no more. This is a wound very near the heart, and yet I must own the justice of it. I had a darling before, on whose animated and sensible countenance I gazed with unbounded rapture, and whom I always regarded with unwarrantable partiality. Yet I might well have

judged, from his dissimilarity to ourselves, and the rest of the family, that he would not remain with us. After having dazzled and charmed us for four years and a few months, he returned to Him from whom he came, leaving us overwhelmed with excessive and sinful anguish. About a year after his death, those twins were born. The eldest I instantly recognized to be the exact resemblance of my sweet boy, whose memory is twisted with the fibres of my heart. As she grew older, her vivacity, her open, generous temper, her robust appearance and quick growth, everything renewed him to us, as well as the expressive and animated countenance that seized the eye of every stranger, and the heart of every one of the family. Indeed she was too lovely, and, till a week before her death, was the very picture of health and vigour. What a profusion of love was heaped upon her, during the period of her short life! Her brothers and sisters, her father, all doted upon her. But her heavenly Father has now vindicated his right, and punished our presumptuous partiality. When I am abler, I shall tax your patience with a recital of the aggravating circumstances of her death. I can now only tell you, that on Sunday, the 12th August, she made her way, through the keenest agonies, to everlasting felicity;

"Ye that e'er lost an angel, pity me!"

Never child gave so little trouble and so much pleasure to parents. I well know how rich I am in remaining blessings, and how both reason and religion forbid repining, because He who has bestowed so

many good gifts, sees fit in his own manner to resume them. When the prayers I daily offer have the desired effect, I may bow patiently to the Divine decree; but now, my dearest friend, a cup can only hold its fill, and mine is filled to the very brim. Were all my earthly comforts removed, I could only grieve, as I do now, as much as my nature can sustain, though I might mourn longer and more excusably. Farewell. Be charitable, for you do not know how you could bear this.

LETTER X.

TO MISS (ADDRESSED MRS.) OURRY.

My dear Friend,

Laggan, September 18, 1792.

My last sombre epistle has, by this time, reached you, and awakened all your sympathy. It affords a ray of comfort to me at this distance, to think you feel with and for me. Those who are immersed, as most people around you are, in eager pursuits of pleasure and ambition, can have no idea of distress like mine. They have not the simplicity of taste which enjoys and feels the attractive charm of infant innocence. Can those who grasp at a thousand shadows which render the mind both callous and fastidious, by their emptiness and variety, contemplate with stedfast gaze and ever new delight, the dawning of sensibility, the unfolding blooms of intelligence and affection? It is in the shady vales, the obscure retreats of life, far from