Miss H. More to Mrs. Gwatkin.

MY DEAR MADAM,

August 9, 1778.

I RECEIVED your favour on Saturday, and though I could not but be infinitely concerned at the melancholy cause of your sudden departure, yet I cannot say I was in the least surprised at it, as it is easy to imagine what effects the dangerous state of a deservedly beloved child must have on a heart so exquisitely alive to all the maternal feelings. What a journey of hurry, anxiety, and fatigue you must have had! I hope you did not undertake it alone. I am very impatient to learn how you found Master Gwatkin, and what his medical friends think of him. I rejoice that he is in such good mands; if there is efficacy in human art, I doubt not of his recovery, having been myself so many times snatched from the devouring jaws of death by the friendly assistance he now receives. God grant it may be as beneficial to him!

I wrote to you, madam, last Friday, not knowing of your migration. I hope they will not send you up the letter, as it is of no consequence now, containing only the particulars relative to my dear little friend, of which you have now so much better information. When your letter was brought, I was upon a visit in the neighbourhood, where it was sent me. There were ten ladies and a clergyman. I was pleased with the assemblage, thinking the vanity of the sex would meet with its equilibrium in the wisdom of the profession; that the brilliant sallies of feinale wit and sprightliness would be corrected and moderated by the learned gravity and judicious conversation of the Rev. Theologue. I looked upon the latter as the centripetal, acting against the cen

For

trifugal force of the former, who would be kept within their orbit of decorum by his means. about an hour nothing was uttered but words, which are almost an equivalent to nothing. The gentleman had not yet spoken. The ladies, with loud vociferation, seemed to talk much without thinking at all. The gentleman, with all the male stupidity of silent recollection, without saying a single syllable, seemed to be acting over the pantomime of thought. I cannot say, indeed, his countenance so much belied his understanding as to express any thing: no, let me not do him that injustice; he might have sat for the picture of insensibility. I endured his taciturnity, thinking that the longer he was in collecting, adjusting, and arranging his ideas, the more would he charm me with the tide of oratorical eloquence, when the materials of his conversation were ready for display: but, alas! it never occurred that I had seen an empty bottle corked as well as a full one. sitting another hour, I thought I perceived in him signs of pregnant sentiment, which was just on the point of being delivered in speech. I was extremely exhilarated at this, but it was a false alarm: he essayed it not. At length the imprisoned powers of rhetoric burst through the shallow mounds of torpid silence and reserve, and he remarked, with equal acuteness of wit, novelty of invention, and depth of penetration, that "we had had no summer." Then, shocked at his own loquacity, he double-locked the door of his lips," and word spoke

never more."

After

Will you not say I am turning devotee when I tell you what my amusements of the reading kind are? I have read through all the Epistles three times since I have been here-the ordinary transla

tion, Locke's Paraphrase, and a third put into very elegant English (I know not by whom,) in which St. Paul's obscurities are elucidated, and Harwood's pomp of words avoided. I am also reading "West on the Resurrection;" in my poor judgment a most excellent thing, calculated to confound all the cavils of the infidel, and to confirm all the hopes of the believer. Have you heard from the sweet little Cornwallian since you left her? My most affectionate regards to my dear Master Lovell, and earnest wishes for his speedy recovery. I am, my dear madam,

With the most perfect esteem,

Your ever obliged and affectionate humble servant,

H. MORE.

From H. More to her sister.

Hampton, 1780.

MRS. GARRICK and I read to ourselves sans intermission. Mr. Matthew Henry and Mr. David Hume (two gentlemen of very different ways of thinking on some certain points) at present engage a great part of my time. I have almost finished the sixth volume, and am at this moment qualified to dispute with the Dean of Gloucester on tonnage and poundage monopolies, and ship-money.

Hampton, Jan. 1780.

Here we are still, and as little acquainted with what passes in the world as though we were five hundred, instead of fifteen miles out of it. Poor Mrs. Garrick is a greater recluse than ever, and has quite a horror at the thoughts of mixing in the world again. I fancy, indeed, she will never go much into it. Her garden and her family amuse

her; but the idea of company is death to her. We never see a human face but each other's. Though in such deep retirement, I am never dull, because I am not reduced to the fatigue of entertaining dunces, or of being obliged to listen to them. We dress like a couple of Scaramouches, dispute like a couple of Jesuits, eat like a couple of aldermen, walk like a couple of porters, and read as much as any two doctors of either university.

I wish the fatal 20th was well over; I dread the anniversary of that day. On her wedding-day she went to the abbey, where she staid a good while; and she said she had been to spend the morning on her husband's grave, where, for the future, she should always pass her wedding-days. Yet she seems cheerful, and never indulges the least melan. choly in company. She spends so very few hours in her bed, that I cannot imagine how she can be so well; but her very great activity, both of body and mind, has, humanly speaking, preserved her life.

Mrs. Boscawen had made a little party which she thought I should like; for you must know there are no assemblies or great parties till after Christmas, and till then it is not the fashion to wear jewels, or dress at all. This last custom has, I think, good sense and economy in it, as it cuts off a couple of months from the seasons of extravagance but I fancy it redeems but little from the nights, for one may lose a good deal of money in a very bad gown.

London, 1780.

I spent a very comfortable day yesterday with Miss Reynolds; only Dr. Johnson, and Mrs. Williams, and myself. He is in but poor health, but his mind has lost nothing of its vigour. He never

opens his mouth but one learns something: one is sure either of hearing a new idea, or an old one expressed in an original manner. We did not part till eleven. He scolded me heartily, as usual, when I differed from him in opinion, and, as usual, laughed when I flattered him. I was very bold in combating some of his darling prejudices: nay, I ventured to defend one or two of the Puritans, whom I forced him to allow to be good men and good writers. He said he was not angry with me at all for liking Baxter: he liked him himself. "But then," said he, " Baxter was bred up in the establishment, and would have died in it if he could have got the living of Kidderminster. He was a very good man." Here he was wrong; for Baxter was offered a bishopric after the restoration.

I never saw Johnson really angry with me but once, and his displeasure did him so much honour that I loved him the better for it. I alluded rather flippantly, I fear, to some witty passage in "Tom Jones:" he replied, "I am shocked to hear you quote from so vicious a book. I am sorry to hear you have read it; a confession which no modest lady should ever make. I scarcely know a more corrupt work." I thanked him for his correction; assured him I thought full as ill of it now as he did, and had only read it at an age when I was more subject to be caught by the wit than able to discern the mischief. Of" Joseph Andrews" I declared my decided abhorrence. He went so far as to refuse to Fielding the great talents which are ascribed to him, and broke out into a noble panegyric on his competitor, Richardson, who, he said, was as superior to him in talents as in virtue, and whom he pronounced to be the greatest genius that had shed its lustre on this path of literature.