solemn and devout manner. Such an awful stillness reigned, that every word was audible. How I felt it! Judge if my heart did not assent to the wish, that the soul of our dear brother now departed was in peace. And this is all of Garrick! Yet a very little while, and he shall "say to the worm, Thou art my brother; and to corruption, Thou art my mother and my sister." So passes away the fashion of this world. And the very night he was buried, the playhouses were as full, and the Pantheon was as crowded, as if no such thing had happened; nay, the very mourners of the day partook of the revelries of the night;-the same night too! As soon as the crowd was dispersed, our friend came to us with an invitation from the bishop's lady, to whom he had related our disaster, to come into the deanery. We were carried into her dressing room, but being incapable of specch, she very kindly said she would not interrupt such sorrow, and left us; but sent up wine, cakes, and all manner of good things, which was really well-timed. I caught no cold, notwithstanding all I went through. On Wednesday night we came to the Adelphi, -to this house! She bore it with great tranquillity; but what was my surprise to see her go alone into the chamber and bed in which he had died that day fortnight. She had a delight in it beyond expression. I asked her the next day how she went through it? She told me very well; that she first prayed with great composure, then went and kissed the dear bed, and got into it with a sad pleasure. From Miss H. More to Mrs. Boscawen.-Describing the true epistolary style. MY DEAR MADAM, Hampton, 1786. SOME little contre tems has detained us here a fortnight beyond our bargain; we propose, however, certainly to be in town by the beginning of next week. I have been amusing myself, during a part of our solitude, with reading some of Madame de Sevigne's letters, and you cannot imagine, my dear madam, what a fund of entertainment I find as I go along in drawing a parallel between them and those of a certain lady, whom it is one of my greatest honours to be permitted to call my friend: the same admirable turn of expression, the same ease which when imitated is so stiff, and when natural is so full of grace: the same philanthropy, the same warm feelings, and, above all, the same excess of maternal tenderness-the same art of dignifying subjects in themselves of little moment, but which become amiable and interesting by some true, though seemingly random and careless, stroke, which shows the hand of a master, but of a master sketching for his amusement, and not finishing for the public. This rage for finishing may produce good essays and fine orations, but it makes frigid letters. For this reason, I think Voiture's letters are in bad taste; he always intends to be brilliant, and therefore is almost always affected-every passage seems written in its very best manner. Now to me the epistolary style is what it ought to be, when the writer, by a happy and becoming negligence, has the art of making you believe that he could write a great deal better if he would, but that he has too much judg ment to use great exertions on small occasionshe will not draw Ulysses' bow to shoot at a pigeon. It is not, however, that I think letter-writing trifling because it is familiar, any more than I think an epigram easy because it is short. My two models whom I parallelized (I believe there is no such word though) at the beginning of this scrawl, also resemble each other in one particular as much as they differ from the generality,-which is their perspicuity; their sense is never perplexed; their periods are not so long as to be involved, nor so short as to be affected; and there is in their manner a kind of luminous cast, which, like the sunshine of Claude, embellishes the most trifling objects. When a poet happens to be possessed of this transparency of expression, this vivid brightness, it gives a wonderful charm to his numbers. But to go from poetry to painting. And so, my dear madam, your partiality to your unworthy friend makes you determined to send her down to posterity by the only conveyance in which she can ever expect to reach it. I feel all the kindness of your intention, and hope you will not think me ungrateful when I say that I have such a repugnance to having my picture taken, that I do not know any motive on earth which could induce me to it but your wishes, which, to me, are such indisputable commands, that any time on Wednesday you will please to appoint, I shall have the honour to attend you to Mr. Opie; and as I am sure the dinner with you will be the pleasantest part of the business to me, I shall wait for your commands as to both. En attendant, believe me, dear madam, From Mrs. H. More to Mr. Harford. MY DEAR FRIEND, Shrewsbury, Sept. 9, 1811. ACCEPT a hasty line for your entertaining letter; I have been so constantly in motion, or in company, or indisposed, that I have not written one letter but of absolute necessity or business since I met you that last morning. You have not the less lived in my affectionate remembrance. Instead of the stipulated fortnight, Mr. Gisborne detained us a month in his charming forest, accompanying us, however, on our excursions. We obeyed your commands in making the Derbyshire tour. Matlock is enchanting, of a different character, but not more interesting than Malvern, where we staid a couple of days in our way to Staffordshire. Every thing concurred to make our visit at Yoxall interesting; scenery of a peculiar character, and pleasant society in the house and neighbourhood. Among our inmates was Mr. - -, brother to Lord the bent of whose mind and the turn of whose conversation incline me to believe that he is not unworthy to fill the pulpit at Lutterworth, once so worthily filled by Wickliffe. It is delightiul to witness the many accessions to the cause of Christian piety in the higher ranks of life. We are come to this fine old town to visit some friends. Both the near and distant views are intimately connected with our history. Here is the battle-field where Harold once fought; and since still more distinguished by the fall of Hotspur, Harry Percy. They do not exactly show the spot where Falstaff ran away. Another hill presents the scene of the valour of Caractacus. Another of an ancient oak, said to have been planted by Owen Glendower. Still more substantially valuable are the numerous edifices consecrated to public charity; all appear to be remarkably well conducted. With public charity the name of Richard Reynolds naturally connects itself, as it did in Colebrook Dale, the most wonderful mixture of Elysium and Tartarus my eyes ever beheld; steam-engines, hills, wheels, forges, fires, the dunnest and the densest smoke, and the most stupendous iron bridge, all rising amid hills that in natural beauty rival Dovedale and Matlock. We grieved that excessive fatigue and heat, rendered more intolerable by a withering east wind, prevented us from roving through Reynolds's fine walk, which he keeps up for the benevolent accommodation of others. morrow (alas! it is still a parching east wind) we propose, if it please God, to set out on a little Welsh tour with our hosts, to peep at the Vale of Llangollen, Valle Crucis, Chirk Castle, &c. &c. We hope to return over the classic ground of Ludlow, a town I much wish to see. May God bless and direct you, my dear friend. Yours affectionately, To H. MORE. LETTERS OF PRECEPT AND ADVICE. Dr. Franklin to Miss Stevenson, at Wanstead. I SEND my good girl the books I mentioned to her last night. I beg of her to accept of them as a small mark of my esteem and friendship. They are written in the familiar, easy manner, for which the French are so remarkable; and afford a good deal of philosophic and practical knowledge, un |