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you see, to have a long conversation with you.

Pray feal, in future, with better wax, and more care. Something colder than one of my kisses 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 second 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 affures me it is original. It will explain itself. Would I might be in your dear, little, enchanted dressing-room, while you read it!

The Speech of a Shawanese 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

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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 passed by, and said, “ Logan is the friend of white men.” I had even thought to live with you. But the injuries of one among you, did a way that thought, and dragged me from my cabin of peace. Colonel Cressop, the laft spring, in cold blood, cut off all the relations of Logan, sparing neither women nor children. 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 - 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."

LET

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L E T T E R

XIV.

To the Same.

Huntingdon, 22d Feb. 1776. How silly 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 passages as fine as they are simple and natural.

" A beam or two finds its way through " the grates, and reflects a feeble glimmer

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“ from the nails of the coffins."

-- Should the haggard skeleton lift a clattering hand-.” In the latter, I know not whether the epithet haggard might not be [pared.

Governor Holwell, in the account of the sufferings at the black hole at Calcutta, when he speaks of the length of time he fupported nature by catching the drops, occasioned 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 sublime ; for this is nature, and nature itself is sublimity.--People write upon a particular situation, 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

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identical Tom Jones, nor Macbeth himself.

Can you become the very being you describe ? Can you look round, and mark only that which strikes in your new character, and forget all which struck in your own? Can you bid your comfortable 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 cieanı shoes, than endeavour by writings 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 actor. 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

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