on the proportion of three boys to one girl, I shall be so much the more pleased. I hope, if I am spared with them, to shew a set of boys that will do honour to my cares and name; but I am not equal to the task of rearing girls. Besides, I am too poor; a girl should always have a fortune. Apropos, your little godson is thriving charmingly, but is a very devil. He, though two years younger, has completely mastered his brother. Robert is indeed the mildest, gentlest creature I ever saw. He has a most surprising memory, and is quite the pride of his schoolmaster.

You know how readily we got into prattle upon a subject dear to our heart: you can excuse it. God bless you and yours!

No. 127.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

Supposed to have been written on the Death of Mrs. H——, her daughter.

I HAD been from home, and did not receive your letter until my return the other day. What shall I say to comfort you, my much-valued, much-afflicted friend! I can but grieve with you; consolation I have none to offer, except that which religion holds out to the children of afflictionchildren of affliction!-how just the expression! and like every other family, they have matters among them which they hear, see, and feel in a serious, all important manner, of which the world

has not, nor cares to have, any idea. The world looks indifferently on, makes the passing remark, and proceeds to the next novel occurrence.

Alas, Madam! who would wish for many years! what is it but to drag existence until our joys gradually expire, and leave us in a night of misery: like the gloom which blots out the stars one by one, from the face of night, and leaves us, without a ray of comfort, in the howling waste!

I am interrupted, and must leave off. You shall soon hear from me again.

No. 128.

TO MRS. DUNLOP.

Dumfries, 6th Dec. 1792.

I SHALL be in Ayrshire, I think, next week; and if at all possible, I shall certainly, my much esteemed friend, have the pleasure of visiting at Dunlop-house.

Alas, Madam! how seldom do we meet in this world, that we have reason to congratulate ourselves on accessions of happiness! I have not passed half the ordinary term of an old man's life, and yet I scarcely look over the obituary of a newspaper, that I do not see some names that I have known, and which I, and other acquaintances, little thought to meet with there so soon. Every other instance of the mortality of our kind, makes us cast an anxious look into the dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder with apprehen

sion for our own fate. But of how different an
importance are the lives of different individuals?
Nay, of what importance is one period of the same
life, more than another? A few years ago, I could
have lain down in the dust, careless of the voice
of the morning;' and now not a few, and these
most helpless individuals, would, on losing me and
my exertions, lose both their staff and shield.'
By the way, these helpless ones have lately got
an addition; Mrs. B— having given me a fine
B-
girl since I wrote you. There is a charming pas-
sage in Thomson's Edward and Eleanora,

'The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer?
Or what need he regard his single woes.' &c.

As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall give you another from the same piece, peculiarly, alas, too peculiarly opposite, my dear Madam, to your present frame of mind;

'Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him
With his fair-weather virtue, that exults

Glad o'er the summer main? the tempest comes,
The rough winds rage aloud; when from the helm
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies
Lamenting-Heaven! if privileged from trial,
How cheap a thing were virtue!'

I do not remember to have heard you mention Thomson's dramas. I pick up favourite quotations, and store them in my mind as ready armour, offensive, or defensive, amid the struggle of this turbulent existence. Of these is one, a very favourite one, from his Alfred.

'Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds
And offices of life; to life itself,

With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose.'

Probably I have quoted some of these to you formerly, as indeed when I write from the heart, I am apt to be guilty of such repetitions. The compass of the heart, in the musical style of expression, is much more bounded than that of the imagination; so the notes of the former are extremely apt to run into one another; but in return for the paucity of its compass, its few notes are much more sweet. I must still give you another quotation, which I am almost sure I have given you before, but I cannot resist the temptation. The subject is religion-speaking of its importance to mankind, the author says,

"Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright,' &c. as in p. 167.

I see you are in for double postage, so I shall e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We in this country here, have many alarms of the reforming, or rather the republican spirit, of your part of the kingdom. Indeed we are a good deal in commotion ourselves. For me, I am a placeman, you know; a very humble one indeed, Heaven knows, but still so much so as to gag me. What my private sentiments are, you will find out without an interpreter.

I have taken up the subject in another view, and the other day, for a pretty Actress's benefitnight, I wrote an address, which I will give on the other page, called The Rights of Woman.*

I shall have the honour of receiving your criticisms in person at Dunlop.

No. 129.

TO MISS B*****, OF YORK.

MADAM,

21st March, 1793.

AMONG many things for which I envy those hale, long-lived old fellows before the flood, is this in particular, that when they met with any body after their own heart, they had a charming long prospect of many, many happy meetings with them in after-life.

Now, in this short, stormy, winter day of our fleeting existence, when you now and then, in the Chapter of Accidents, meet an individual whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there are all the probabilities against you, that you shall never meet with that valued character more. On the other hand, brief as this miserable being is, it is none of the least of the miseries belonging to it, that if there is any miscreant whom you hate, or creature whom you despise, the ill-run of the chances shall be so against you, that in the overtakings, turning, and jostlings of life, pop, at some unlucky corner, eternally comes the wretch upon you, and will not allow your indignation or contempt a moment's repose. As I am a sturdy believer in the powers of darkness, I take these to be the doings of that old author of mischief, the devil. It is well known that he has some kind of short-hand way of taking down our thoughts, and I make no doubt that he is perfectly acquainted