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but love-letters. This morning, pardon me: I am unable to trifle ; I must be allowed to talk of love, of M.

And, when I am able, you must allow me to put in a word or two sometimes for myself. To-day, however, I will not make you unhappy by telling you how truly so I am

The truth is--my heart is full'; and though I thought, when, I took up my pen, I could have filled a quire of paper with it, I now have not a word to fay. Were I fitting by your fide now (oh that I were !) I should only have power to recline my cheek upon your shoulder, and to wet your hankerchief with my tears. .

My own safety, but for your fake, is the last of my considerations. Our passage was rather boisterous, but not dangerous. Mrs. F. (whom I mentioned to you, I believe, in the letter I wrote just before we embarked) has enabled me to make you laugh with an account of her behaviour ; were either of us in a humour to laugh.

Why Why did you cheat me so about that box?

Had I known I should find, upon openit, that the things were for me, I would never have brought it.

But that you knew. Was it kind, my M. to give me so many daily memorandums of you, when I was to be at such a distance from you? Oh, yes, it was, it was, most kind. And that, and you, and all your

thousand and ten thousand kindnesses I never will forget. The purse shall be my conftant companion, , the shirts I'll wear by night, one of the handkerchiefs I was obliged to use in drying my eyes as soon as I opened the box, the

God, God, bless you in this world-that is, give you your H., and grant you an easy passage to eternal bleffings in a better world.

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To the Same.

Ireland, 8 April, 1776. Your's, dated April the first, would have diverted me, had I been some leagues nearer to you. It contained true wit and humour. I truly thank

I truly thank you for it, because I know with how much difficulty you study for any thing like wit or humour in the present situation of your mind. But you do it to divert me; and it is done for one, who, though he cannot laugh at it, as lie ought, will remember it, as he oughtYet, with what a melancholy tenderness it concluded! There spoke your heart.

Your situation, when you wrote it, was something like that of an actress, who should be obliged to play a part in comedy, on the evening of a day which, by some real catastrophe, had marked her out for the capital figure of a real tragedy. Perhaps I have said something like this in the long letter I have written you since. Never mind.

letter friend

Pray be careful how you seal your letters. The wax always robs me of five or six words. Leave a space for your seal. Suppose that should be the part of your letter which tells me you still love me. If the wax cover it, I see it not-I find no such expression in your letter,-I grow distracted -and immediately set out for CharingCross to ask



do indeed still love me.

In the hospitality of this country I was not deceived.' They have a curse in their language, strongly descriptive of it “May the grass grow at your door!”—The women, if I knew not you, I should find sensible and pretty. But I am deaf, dumb, blind, to every thing, and to every person but you. If I write any more this morning, I shall certainly sin against your coinmands.

Why do you say nothing of children? I insist upon it you buy my

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your dear

friend a taw, and two dozen of marbles; and place them to the account of

Your humble Servant.



To the Same.

Ireland, 20 April, 76. THANKS for the two letters I received last week. They drew tears from me, but not tears of sorrow.

To my poetry you are much too partial. Never talk of writing poetry for the press. It will not do. Few are they, who like you, can judge of poetry; and, of the judges, few, alas! are just. Juvenal, the Roman Churchill, advises a young man to turn auctioneer, rather than poet. In our days, Christie would knock Chatterton out of all chance in a week.-The Spaniards have a proverb, “ He, who cannot make one verse, is a block-head; he who makes more, is a fool.”—Pythagoras you know a little by name. Perhaps


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