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idea of losing you. Yes, they don't drop only; they pour; I sob, like a child. Is this Othello, is this Zanga ? We know not what we are, nor what we may

become. This I know, that I am and ever will be, your's and only your's.

I send you Offian, You will see what a favourite he is with me, by some drawings, and pieces of (what your partiality will call) poetry, which accompany the bard of other times. Should you quit this world before me, which fate forbid, often shall I hear your spirit (if I can be weak enough to survive you)calling me from thelow-failing cloud of night.-They abuse Macpherson for calling them translations. If he alone be the author of them, why does he not say so, and claim the prize of fame; I protest I would. They who do not refuse their admiration to the compositions, still think themselves justified to abuse Macpherson, for pretending not to be the author of what they still admire. Is not this strange?

As we could not meet this morning (how long must our meetings depend on others, and not on ourselves ?)I was determined, you see, to have a long conversation with

you. Pray seal, in future, with better wax, and more care. Something colder than one of my kiffes


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might have thawed the seal of yesterday. But I will not talk of thawing. Had the frost and snow continued, I had still been with you at H.

The remainder of this (my fecond sheet of paper, observe) shall be filled with what I think a valuable curiosity. The officer, whom you saw with me on Sunday, is lately come from America. He gave it me, and assures me it is original. It will explain itself. Would I might be in your dear; little, enchanted dresling-room, while you read it! The Speech of a Shawaréfe Chief, to Lord Dunmore.

“I appeal to any white man to-day, if ever he entered Logan's cabin hungry, and he gave him not meat ; if he ever came cold or naked, and I gave him not clothing. During the last long and bloody war, Logan remained idle,ignominious, in his cabin, an advocate for peace. Such was my love of the Whites, that those of mine own country pointed at me as they paffed by, and faid, “ Logan is the friend of white men." I had even thought to live with you. But the injuries of one among you, did away that thoughts and dragged me from my cabin of peace. ColonelCreflop, the last spring, in cold blood, cut off all the relations of Logan, sparing neither women norchildren. There runs not a drop of the blood


of Logan in the veins of any human creature. This called on me for revenge. I have fought it. I have killed many. Revenge has been fully glutted.

“For my country-I rejoice at the beams of peace. But, harbour not the thought that mine

. is the joy of fear. Logan never felt fear. He will not turn his heel to save his life.

“ Who is there to mourn for Logan ?-Not one."

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Huntingdon, 22 Feb. 1776. How filly we were, both of us, not to recollect your favourite Jenny ? and did not Jamie think of her either? "Though my mother did na speak, She look'd in my face, till my heart was fit to break.”

Was not this exactly the instance we wanted ?

Something more has occurred to me on the same subject. Rather than not write to you, or than write to you as descriptively as recollection sometimes tempts me, I know you would have me write nonsense.

In Hervey's “ Meditations" are two pafiages as fine as they are simple and natural.

« A beam or two finds its way through the grates, and reflects a feeble glimmer from the “ nails of the coffins." " Should the haggard “ skeleton lift à clattering hand.” In the latter, I know not whether the epithet haggard might not be spared.

Governor Holwell, in the account of the fufferings at the black hole at Calcutta, when he speaks of the length of time he supported nature by catching the drops, occafioned by the heat, which fell from his head and face, adds these words" You cannot imagine how unhappy I was when any one of them escaped my tongue !" . What a scene ! The happiness, the existence of a fellow creature, dependent upon being able to catch a drop of his own sweat ! Shakespeare's fancy could not have invented, nor ever did invent, any thing more fublime, for this is nature, and nature itself is sublimity.-People write upon a particular fituation, they do not put themselves in the situation. We only see the writer, fitting in his study, and working up a story to amuse or to frighten; not the identical Tom Jones, not Macbeth himself. Can you become the very being you


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Can you look round, and mark only that which strikes in your new character, and forget all which ftruck in your own? Can you

bid fortable study, be the prison of innocence or the house of mourning? Can you transform your garret of indigence into the palace of pleasure ? If you cannot, you had better clean fhocs, than endeavour bywritings to interest the imagination. We cannot even bear to see an author only peeping over the top of every page, to observe how we like him. The player I would call a corporal actor, the writer a mental a&tor. Garrick would in vain have put his face and his body in all the situations of Lear, if Shakespeare had not before put his mind in them all. In a thousand instances, we have nothing to do but to copy nature, if we can only get her to sit our pencil. And yet--how few of the most eminent masters are happy enough to hit off her difficult face exactly!

Every person of taste would have been certain that Mr. Holwell was one of the sufferers in the black hole, only from the short passage I have noticed.

Robinson Crusoe now-what nature ! It affeels us throughout, exactly in the way you mentioned. But, Thall I finish my differtation? Comemas


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