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Though I had not strength to resist when under the fame roof with you, ever since we parted, the recollection that it was his roof has made me miserable. Whimsical, that he should bid you press me, when I at first refused his folicitation.—Is H. guilty of a breach of hospitality ?

I must not question-I must not think, I must not write. But, we will meet as we fixed.

Does Robin Gray suspect ?--Suspect! And is H. a subject for suspicion ?

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Huntingdon, 16 Feb. 1776. Every time I see you I discover fome new charm, some new accomplishment. Before Heaven, there was not a tittle of flattery in what I told you yesterday. Nothing can be flattery which I say of you,

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no invention, no poetry, no any thing can come up to what I think of you.

One of our Kings said of the citizens of his good city of London, that when he considered their richies, he was in admiration at their understandings--when he considered their understandings, he was in admiration at their riches. Just so do I with regard 10 your person and your mind, but for a different reason.-Nature was in one of her extravagant moods when she put you together. She might have made two captivating women out of you—by my soul, half a dozen ! Your turn for music, and excellence in it, would be a sufficient stock of charms for the most disagreeable woman to set up with in life. Music has charms to do things most incredible, music

Now thall I, with the good-humoured, digrellive pen of our favourite Montaigne in' his entertaining Eilays, begin with love, and end with a treatise upon the Gamut. Yet to talk of music, is to talk of

you. M. and music are the same. What is music

without

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without you? And harmony has turned your mind, your person, your every look, and word, and action.

Observe--when I write to you I never pretend to write sense. I have no head ; you have made me all heart, from top to bottom. Sense-why, I am out of my senses, and have been these six weeks. Were it possible my scrawls to you could ever be read by any one but you, I should be called a madman. I certainly am either curft or blest (I know not which) with parsions wild as the torrent's roar. Notwithstanding I take this fimile from water, the element out of which I am formed, is fire. Swift had water in his brain: I have a burning coal of fire: your hand can light it

up to rapture, rage, or madness. Men, real men, have never been wild enough for my admiration : it has wandered into the ideal world of fancy. Othello (but he should have put himself to death in his wife's si ght, not his wife), Zanga, are my herces. Milk-and-water passions , are like senti

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mental comedy. Give me (you see, how, like your friend Montaigne, I strip myself of my skin, and shew you all my veins and arteries even the playing of my heart)

give me, I say, tragedy, affecting tragedy, in the world, as well as in the theatre. I would massacre all mankind sooner than lose you.

-This is mere madness; And thus, a while. the fit will work on

him;

Anon, as patient as the female dove
When that her golden couplets are dif-

closed,
His silence will fit drooping.

Inconsistent being! While I am ranting thus about tragedy, and blood, and murder -behold, I am as weak as a woman. My tears flow at but the 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

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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 fome 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 the low-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 (low long muít our meetings depend on others, and not on ourselves ?) I was determined,

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