FRAGMENTS, 
 
 IN 
 
 PROSE and VERSE,
 
 FRAGMENTS, 
 
 IN 
 
 PROSE and VERSE: 
 
 BY 
 
 A YOUNG LADY^ 
 
 JLatelp DcceasJcti. 
 
 WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF 
 
 HER LIFE AND CHARACTER, 
 
 BY THE 
 
 Author of " Sermons on the Doctrines and Duties 
 of Ckristianitj/. 
 
 THIRD EDITION. 
 
 PRINTED BY 
 RICHARD CRUTTWELL, ST. JAMES's-STREET, BATH ; 
 
 AND SOLD ET 
 
 CADELL AND DA VIES, STRAND, IIATCHARD, PICCADILLY, 
 
 i^ONDONj AND S. CHEYNE, EUIXCURGH. 
 
 1808.
 
 UNIVEHSIiY OF C LIFORNIA 
 SANTA BAlliiAKA 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 npHE favour with which memoirs and letters 
 are generally received by the public, has 
 encouraged the produ(51:ion of a great many bio- 
 graphical works, written on very different prin- 
 ciples, and which must be perused with very 
 different feelings. The delight with which every 
 friend of science and virtue reads the life of Sir 
 William Jones, of Dr. Beattie, of Mr. Cowper, 
 or of Mrs. Carter, can furnish no excuse for 
 publications, in which some of the most vicious 
 charafters that disgrace the present times, are 
 dragged into notice, to disgust or to corrupt 
 succeeding generations. For such an insult on
 
 [ vi ] 
 
 tbe principles and the taste of the reader no 
 apology can be offered; but when the charafter 
 that is brought before the public is really de- 
 serving of esteem, the feeling heart will view 
 with indulgence the partial fondness of sur- 
 viving friendship, which endeavours to save 
 from oblivion the object of its affection, and to 
 strew a few flowers on the humble tomb of 
 departed virtue. 
 
 The following pages will not be found to 
 contain a single sentence which can give pain 
 to any human being; and though nothing in 
 this colleftion was written with a view to pub- 
 lication, yet, as the delicacy which always 
 ^onk from observation cannot now be 
 wounded by praise or blame, it is, I hope, 
 allowable to remove the veil which an excess 
 of modest reserve threw over uncommon merit. 
 
 To the friends of the author, for whom this 
 little volume is principally intended, the names 
 of a few persons who are mentioned in it will
 
 [ vii ] 
 
 be known. To the public it is presumed thejr 
 cannot be interesting. The Young Lady whose 
 talents and virtues are here pointed out to the 
 reader, was Httle known in the world. Her 
 short life was spent in retirement, and it affords 
 no incidents to awaken curiosity ; but it offers 
 an example, which may be useful to all her sex, 
 and particularly to the younger part of it; and 
 I am encouraged to hope, that her writings may 
 not be uninteresting to readers of a very different 
 description.* I have only noticed such circum- 
 stances in her " short and simple annals," a^ 
 seemed necessary to explain her letters, and to 
 shew the progress of her improvement in dif- 
 ferent branches of science. The use which she 
 made of learning, and the effe£t which it pro- 
 duced on her conduct in life, may be collected 
 from many parts of the following work, which 
 will prove that every acquisition in science only 
 
 * See a letter from the Rev. Dr. R — to Mrs. S — , ia 
 the Appendix.
 
 [ viii ] 
 
 increased the humility of her natural character; 
 ■while extensive reading, and deep refle£lion, 
 added strength to her conviction of those great 
 truths of revealed religion, which in life and 
 in death supported her through every trial, and 
 which can alone afford consolation to the pa- 
 rents and friends who live to mourn her loss.
 
 FRAGMENTS 
 
 7.V PROSE AND VERSE. 
 
 "\ yflSS Elizabeth S— was born in the year 
 1776, Some particulars relating to the early 
 part of her life may be learnt from a letter written 
 soon after her death by her afflidled mother to the 
 Rev. Dr. R — , in consequence of his request that she 
 would inform him of such circumstances with re- 
 gard to the gradual progress of her daughter's mind, 
 as had not come under his own observation.* I 
 will only mention here a few particulars, which 
 seem necessary to explain her writings. 
 
 * See Appendix. 
 B
 
 [ 2 ] 
 
 When I first saw Miss S — , in the summer of 
 the year 1789, she was only in her thirteenth year, 
 and her extreme timidity made it difficult to draw 
 her into conversation; but even then I saw many 
 proofs of very uncommon talents. We were fre- 
 quently together during the three following yearsj 
 either at Piercefield, where Mr. and Mrs. S— then 
 resided; or at Bath, where Miss S — and her sisters 
 were often with us. At that time Elizabeth asto- 
 nished us by the facility with which she acquired 
 information on every subje61:. She excelled in every 
 thing that she attempted. Music, Dancing, Draw- 
 ing, and Perspefilive, were then her chief pursuits, 
 and she succeeded in all ; but even at that early age, 
 Ner greatest pleasure seemed to be reading, which she 
 would pursue with unwearied attention, during so 
 many hours, that I often endeavoured to draw her 
 away from her books, as I feared that such close 
 ipplication might injure her heallh> She was then 
 well acquainted with the French and Italian lan- 
 guages, and had made considerable progress in the 
 study of Geometry, and some other branches of the 
 Mathematics. At, every period of her life she was 
 extremely fond of poetry. The following fragment 
 is dated in June 1792:
 
 { s 3 
 
 The Sun, just rising from his wat'ry bed. 
 Shook from his golden locks the briny drops;" 
 The Earth her many-colour'd mantle spread. 
 And caught the crystal on her flow'rets tops; 
 While Nature smil'd, to see her rising crops 
 With brighter beauty glow, and richer hues ; 
 As now the night her sable chariot stops. 
 Each drooping flow'r, refresli'-d v/ith morning dews, 
 i^ifts its gay head, and all around its fragrance strews. 
 
 II. 
 
 So fair the mom, when EiiMA, fairer still. 
 Left the lone cottage, now her sole retreat; 
 And wander'd musing o'er the neighb'ring hill, 
 With downcast eyes, which weeping look'd more sweet. 
 Down to the vale she tuin'd her trembling feet; 
 There, in the middle of a shady wood, 
 O'erhung with trees, which branch to branch did meet. 
 Glided a gentle stream, where, as it stood, 
 Each bough its image shew'd in the clear glassy flood. 
 
 III. 
 
 ■Here paus'd the Nymph, and on tl^c bank reclin'd, 
 'Neath a large oak fann'd by each gentle gale; 
 She swell'd the brook with tears, with sighs the wind. 
 And thus l;er melancholy fate 'gan walk 
 B e
 
 [ 4 ] 
 
 And ye, who read her sad and mournful tale. 
 Oh! drop one tender sympathetic tear! 
 Think that the best of human kind is frail. 
 Nor knows the moment when his end is near ; 
 But all sad Emma's hapless fate must fear. 
 
 TV, 
 
 « How fair each form in youthful fancy's eyes, 
 « Just like the tender flow'rs of blooming May; 
 " Like them in all their beauty they arise, 
 «' Like them they fade, and sudden die away. 
 *' We mourn their loss, and wish their longer stay, 
 *' But all in vain ; — no more the flow'rs return, 
 <' Nor fancy's images divinely gay ! 
 " So pass'd my early youth ; then in its turn 
 " Each fancied image plcas'd ; for each at times I bui-n. 
 
 V, 
 
 " How charming then o'er hill and vale to stray, 
 " When first the sun shot forth his morning beam; 
 " Or when at eve he hid his golden ray, 
 " To climb the rocks, and catch the last faint gleam; 
 *' Or when the moon imbru'd in blood did seem, 
 *♦ To watch her rising from the distant hill, 
 *' Her soft light trembling on the azure stream, 
 " Which gentlv curl'd, while all beside was still ; 
 " How would such scenes my heart with admiration fill i
 
 [ 6 3 
 
 VI. 
 
 «< But now, alas ! these peaceful days are o'er ; 
 «< Fled like the summer breeze that wakes the dawTi, 
 « Wafts spicy odours swift from shore to shore, 
 « And gathers all the fragrance of the lawn ; 
 «* Yet ei;e his noon-day crown the sun adorn, 
 «< 'Tis past, 'tis gone; no more the scorching plains 
 " Can shew where blew the gentle breath of morn; 
 « The brook, the cattle, and the shepherd swains, 
 «* All seek the shade; — ^but peace for Emma none remains !' 
 
 V in May, 1792, Miss H — accompanied me to 
 Piercefield ; and it is not extraordinary that simi- 
 larity of talents and pursuits, as well as sympathy in 
 every thing that is good and amiable, should lead 
 Elizabeth to attach herself strongly to her. From 
 that time a correspondence began, from which I have 
 made a few extra6ls, to shew what were her studies 
 and amusements at fifteen years of age. 
 
 "To MissH . 
 
 *' Juli/1, 1792. 
 *' I am much obliged to you for all the informa - 
 tion in your last letter, and I hope I have found 
 out what you wanted, I have been measuring cir-
 
 r 6 ] 
 
 dcs, and find that my former conje6lure was right: 
 
 &;c. &c. 1 know not whether I have explained 
 
 this properly, but so it appears to me. I was a little 
 mortified to see that my table was not quite exact, 
 though I fear it is as near as it can be brought; but 
 if this way of making equal squares and circles is 
 right, it will make me amends. The line in Dante 
 is very applicable, but I desire you will not begin to 
 dpspairyet. I do not, though there are many things 
 that I prefer to these Mathematics. At the head of 
 them stands Poetry, I thought some parts of Tasso 
 extremely fine. Dante I have not read. Atpreseo* 
 I am engaged in an argument with my dear Miss 
 B — , concerning Ossian. I support him against all 
 other poets. Yoa may easily guess who will get 
 the better ; but I will say all I can for Ossian, for T 
 really love his poems beyond all others. Mlltoa 
 must stand alone; but surely Ossian is in some re- 
 spects superior to Homer. Can you find any thing 
 equal to his descriptions of nature ; his address to 
 the Sun in Carthon, that to the Moon in Darthula, 
 and the last hymn ? Surely in " the joy of grief,*' 
 and in night scenes, there is nothing equal to him. 
 I would rather read the description of one of his 
 ghosts tl:»an of all Homer's gods. One of my greatest
 
 [ 7 ] 
 
 reasons for admiring him is, that all his heroes aro 
 so good. There is not one of them that would be 
 guilty of a cruel a6lion for the world, nor would they 
 insult over thedead. Tn short, one cannot help loving 
 almost every person Ossian mentions. Besides, there 
 are no vulgar descriptions, but every word is poetry. 
 By way of comparison, look at some particular de- 
 scription in Homer and in Ossian : suppose it is a 
 moou-liffht ; you will find but one of any conse- 
 quence in Homer, and thenit is only a simile, though 
 a very beautiful one 5 it begins at the 6S7thline of 
 the 8th book. Compare it with any one of the vast 
 number you will find in Ossian. I think the idea 
 of the Moon retiring to weep for the sisters she has 
 lost, is finer than all the philosophy on the subje6l* 
 I love your flov.'ery meadows, and murmuring 
 streams; but I cannot help preferring rude moun- 
 tainsj roaring torrents, and rocky precipices. I could 
 wander with pleasure in your sequestered vale, but 
 should feel more transported by the grandeur of one 
 cf Ossian's night scenes." &c. 
 
 " July 21, M 02 
 
 " \Ve have not received any certain information 
 respecting lh« Castle j but I a-m inclined to give it,
 
 [ 8 ] 
 
 whatever it was, to Llewellyn ap Gryffydd, whom we 
 have determined to kill on a piece of ground adjoin- 
 ing to it J and Mr. Williams, who is writing the his- 
 tory of Monmouthshire, told us, that Buillt, where 
 it has been said he died, is somewhere near this 
 place; he does not know exaftly where it is, but we 
 will find it out. I am sure it is in our woods. If 
 this be not true, it is at least such a pretty little 
 fi6lion, and so harmless, that I really must believe 
 it. I wish you would write a poem on his death, 
 and place it in our wood. You must say that it is 
 translated from an old Welsh bard, and that will set 
 the matter beyond a doubt." 
 
 " August 13. 
 
 " I am so delighted with what you say of Llewel- 
 lyn, that I cannot rest till I write to you. Has Mrs, 
 
 shewn the manuscript to any person who 
 
 understands Welsh ? She would not perhaps like to 
 trust the original out of her own hands; but if she 
 would have it copied, we could easily get it trans- 
 lated for her, and should consider ourselves highly 
 
 obliged by a sight of it. If it is what Mrs. 
 
 supposes, it will indeed be invaluable. I have a 
 great mind to believe that our Castle in the wood is
 
 [ 9 ] 
 
 the Castle of Buillt, for no one seems to know ex- 
 actly where that is; and if the prince was killed in 
 our grounds, it certainly is so. I hope the n)anu- 
 script will settle all our doubts ; at present we arc 
 obliged to fight hard, with every body we meet, in 
 maintaining our cause. I am charnied with the 
 name of Gwillim of Gwhent, the Blue Knight; it 
 would be a good one for the hero of a romance." 
 
 The Castle mentioned in these Letters requires 
 some explanation. Elizabeth discovered some re- 
 mains of buildings in a wood, and thought she could 
 trace out several round towers, a moat, &c. I re- 
 member our walking over the spot where her lively 
 imagination had built a Castk, of which she drew 
 a plan from the slight traces which remained. 
 She was then unacquainted with archite6lure, but I 
 shewed her little drawing to a gentleman who per- 
 fedlly understood the subj>e6l, and he said that he 
 believed she was right in her conje6lure, for the 
 plan she had drawn was exa6lly what was usually 
 adopted by the Romans in their castles. The fol- 
 lowing paper will shew the indefatigable application 
 with which Elizabeth pursued the enquiries, which
 
 C 10 ] 
 
 Si passage in Warrington's History of Wales led her 
 to make, in regard to the situation of Buillt, and 
 some other circumstance mentioned by him.* 
 
 ^Account of die death of Llewellyn, from Warrington's 
 History of Wales, page 509. 
 
 " Lewellyn proceeded to the cantrew of Buillt, near the 
 
 water of Wye. 
 
 " The Prince was waiting in a small grove. 
 
 On the enemies first assault, his Esquire came to inform him 
 that he heard a great outcry at the bridge. The Prince 
 ragerly asked if his people were in possession of the bridge; 
 and being told that they were, he calmly replied, then he 
 would not stir from thence, though the whole power of Eng- 
 land were on the other side of the river. This confidence, 
 tho' not improperly placed, lasted but a moment, the grgve 
 being surrounded by the enemies horse. Beset on every side, 
 and cut off from his army, Llewellyn endeavoured as secretly 
 us he could to make good his retreat, and to join the troops 
 he had stationed on the mountain, who, drawn up in battle 
 array, were eagerly expetfting the return ot their prince. In 
 making this attempt, he was discovered and pursued by 
 Adam de Frandton, who, perceiving him to be a Welshman, 
 and not knowing his quality, plunged his spear into the body 
 of the prince, being unarmed and incapable of defence. The 
 Welsh were afterwards defeated, and left two thousand men 
 dead on the field. All this time Llewellyn lay on th» 
 ground, faint, and almost expiring. He had just life enough
 
 [ 11 J 
 
 ** Arthur seems to have been king of Gwhenf, 
 which comprehended all Monmouthshire, part of the 
 dioceses of Hereford and Worcester, and the part of 
 Glocestershire between the Wye and the Severn. 
 Milton mentions Buillt in Brecknockshire. Camden 
 mentions Kair-Lheon as a great city, having three 
 churches, one of which was honoured with the me- 
 tropolitan see of Wales. Here the Roman Ambas- 
 sadors received their audience at the illustrious court 
 of the great King Arthur. &c. 
 
 " Upon the river Wye is Buillt. Whether this 
 town be the ancient Bullceum, or whether that city 
 or fort were not at a place criiied Karccn, some miles 
 distant from it, may be questioned. If it be urged 
 in favour of Buillt, that it seems still to retain its an- 
 cient name; it may be answered that Buillt, which 
 1 interpret Ox-cliff, or Oxen-hill, was the name of a 
 small country here, from whence in all probability 
 
 remaining to ask for a priest. A white friar, who chanced 
 to he present, administered to the djang Prince the last 
 duties of his office. The hurry of the adion being ended, 
 Frandon came back to strip the person lie had wounded. 
 On viewing the body which was still breathing, it v/as 
 found, to the great joy of the English army, that it was 
 the Prince of Wales."
 
 C 12 ] 
 
 the ancient Bulloeum was denominatedj but that be- 
 ing totally destroyed, and this town becoming after- 
 wards the most noted place of the country, it might 
 receive its name from it as the former had done. 
 But since the congruity of the names was the main 
 argument that induced our learned author to assign 
 this situation to the ancient Bulloeum Silurum, we 
 shall have occasion of hesitating, if hereafter we find 
 the ruins of a Roman fort or city in a neighbouring 
 country of the Silures." — Carte, 
 
 The above is only a very small part of the extra£ls 
 made by Miss S — , from SmoUet, Collier, Carte, 
 Camden, and Monasticon Ang, on this subje6l. In 
 a letter to Miss H — , dated December 12, 1792, 
 she encloses a Poem, of which she says, *' Being 
 determined to have a poem on Llewellyn's death, 
 and not being able to persuade you, my dear friend, 
 to commit forgery, I have been obliged to try my 
 hand at it, and I send it to you, because you desire 
 me to contiiuie rhyming 3 though without making 
 use of any of the modesty for which you so kindly 
 give me credit, I must see that I do not deserve all 
 that you say on that subjed. However, if it is youF
 
 C 13 ] 
 
 true opinion, you must be delighted at being desired 
 to read this volume of nonsense; and if it is not, I 
 have taken the most efre<9;ual method to cure you of 
 complimenting. Can you tell on what part of the 
 banks of the Wye to find Mochros and Hentlan ? 
 I can only find that Hentlan is between the rivers 
 Wye and Irgudina, which last I can no where dis- 
 cover. Do not go far to look for it, as I know by 
 experience what an undertaking it is. All those old 
 authors copy after each other, and make nothing 
 but confusion. I prefer my own way of making 
 the history just as I please, without consulting one 
 of them; and upon that principle, I intend to put 
 the places I have mentioned, at or near Piercefield." 
 
 A supposed Translation from a IVelsh Poem, latelij dug up at 
 
 FiERCF.FiF.LD, in the same spot luhere Llf.wfiln 
 
 jIP GRrFFTD was slain, Dec. 10///, 1281. 
 
 Round Snowdon's shaggy brows grim darkness hung, 
 Save that the moon, the gather'd clouds among, 
 Shot forth at times a dimly-gleaming ray. 
 Then wat'iy, pale, turn'd her sad face away. ■"» 
 
 In Merlin's cave I sate, 
 
 And mark'd her tearful eye; 
 
 Which seem'd to mourn the fate 
 
 Decreed for some on h'vAu
 
 [ 14 ] 
 
 "What fate's decreed by heav'n, blest beam of night. 
 That so disturbs thy sweetly-smiHng light? 
 No more it shines ; — Thou turn'st thy face with scom« 
 And darkly leav'st me, wretched and forlorn. 
 Down the steep the torrent roars, 
 
 Loud the thunder rings from far. 
 Billows shake the rocky shores, 
 All resounds the din of war. 
 
 But hark! — This elemental war is drown'd 
 In one more great, and more teriific sound; 
 A sound high Snowdon from his base to tear, 
 A sound the spirits of the dead shall fear! 
 
 Spirits of my sires, attend ! 
 
 5)o^vn from your clouds, ye blest ones, bend! 
 
 Tell me, -whence these shrieks of woe 
 
 With cries of death confus'dly flow? 
 
 "Great Merlin, thou, the chief of Prophets, hear! 
 *ro thy own cave 'mid stormy winds draw neai"; 
 Pour on my darken'd soul thy light divine. 
 And give it in fair truth's bright blaze to shine. 
 
 He comes, he comes, in mist array 'd. 
 
 Slow and solemn glides the shade! 
 
 And while he speaks, the earth stands still, 
 
 Llst'ning to his mighty will. 
 
 ■*« Heav'n-favour'd Bard, my words attentive hear, 
 ** Words such as ne'er were giv'n to mortal ear;
 
 [ 15 ] 
 
 " I tell the woes to-morrow*s sun shall bring, 
 «' Cambria shall fall, shall lose her much-Iov'd king. 
 *' On Vaga's banks, near to where once Buillt stood, 
 <* O'erlooking fair Sabrina's silver flood, 
 «< Pierc'd with a spear ingloriously he'll fall, 
 " Whence future times that spot shall Piercefield call." 
 So saying, like the meteor's blaze. 
 
 The spirit flies ; 
 
 And while I gaze. 
 The dim red light in darkness dies ! 
 
 But, oh, my country! how shall I deplore 
 Thy cruel doom? Cambria shall be no more! 
 Llewtllyn too, our guardian king, shall fall, 
 In him we lose our only hope, — our all!" 
 
 Blow, ye winds; and roar, ye waves; 
 
 Rend the mountains' inmost caves; 
 
 Let loose the spirits of tlie storm. 
 
 Bid them rise in human form. 
 
 More fierce than they, in human form appears 
 That barb'rous Prince, who causes all our tears; 
 A tiger's heart he bears beneath that face, 
 Which seems to promise honour, goodness, grace, 
 • Let lightning flash, 
 And thunder growl, 
 I^et torrents dash. 
 And the black tempest o'er me scowl j
 
 [ 16 3 
 
 This soul, in unison with ev'ry gust, 
 Shall rage and burn till I be turn'd to dust; 
 Ne'er shall I patient brook my country's doom, 
 But sighing, sorrowing, sink into the tomb. 
 
 Daughters of Cambria, with me mourn, 
 
 Sing the sad woe-breathing strain ; 
 From your fair heads the ringlets torn 
 
 Scatter round th' ensanguin'd plain. 
 No more in summer's even tide 
 
 Your gentle flocks you'll lead 
 To whei-e the brook, with flow'ry side. 
 
 Slow wanders through the mead; 
 But soon to conquerors rude a prey, 
 
 You'll quit your native land. 
 And drag through life your mournful way, 
 
 A wretched, captive band! 
 
 Warriors, break the sounding mall, 
 
 Cast down the lance, the helm untie; 
 Arms shall now no more avail. 
 
 For you before the foe shall fly. 
 No more, in deeds of arms renown'd. 
 
 You'll dare the single fight; 
 Or with exulting laurels crown'd, 
 
 Assert your country's right;
 
 L 17 j 
 
 But to tlie WQods and mai-shes driv'n, 
 
 Ingloriously you'll sigh; 
 For ah ! to you it is not giv'n 
 
 Amidst your friends to die ! 
 
 To Piercefield's Cliffs, I'll now a pilgrim go, 
 Shed o'er my Prince belov'd the tears of woe ; 
 There will I seek some deep and rocky cell, 
 Amidst the thick entangled wood to dwell; 
 
 There indulge my plaintive thqme, 
 
 To the wan moon's icy beam; 
 
 While the rocks responsive ring. 
 
 To my hai*p's high-sounding string; 
 
 Vaga stops her rolling tide, 
 
 List'ning to her ancient pride ; 
 
 Birds and beasts my song attend, 
 And mourn with me our countfy'^fa^al^pd! 
 
 •__ •;> 
 
 "To MissH — -. 
 
 '' Bath, Feb, 21^ 1793. 
 
 ^^ Miss B. and I wish for you every day, so that 
 you are in no danger of being forgotten between us; 
 and whilst wc remember you, we cannot forget to 
 love you. I am much obliged to you for all the 
 trouble you have taken about the places I wished to 
 find, but I believe it is a fruitless search. I am 
 c
 
 [ 18 ] 
 
 persuaded their situation is not known, and I intend 
 to place them where I choose to have them. 
 
 '* The above was written this morning, when I 
 did not expe£l to leave this place before Friday, but 
 I now find we are to go home to-morrow ; and I 
 must, however unwillingly, make an end of my let- 
 ter. I hope to have more time at Pierccfield, where 
 we are now all to meet, after having been scattered 
 over the face of the earth for the last half year. I 
 shall be excessively grieved, a.sj/ou can imagine, to 
 
 leave our dear friend • but otherwise I shall not 
 
 regret Bath." 
 
 At the commencement of the war, in the year 
 1793, many Banks in the West of England failed, 
 and Mr. S — 's was unfortunately of that number. 
 The domestic happiness to which Elizabeth looked 
 forward when she wrote the last letter, was fatally 
 interrupted by this event ; and I received from her 
 the following letter, written only five days after she 
 leftBath. The importance of the subje6l probably 
 induced me to preserve this letter, when 1 destroyed 
 many others which I shall never cease to regret. 
 Alas ! I little thought that I should live to mourn 
 the early death of my amiable young friend, whose
 
 [ 19 ] 
 
 talents and virtues were my pride and delight, and 
 who I hoped would have been an ornament and a 
 blessing; to the world, long after T was removed from 
 it ! It has pleased God to order otherwise. 
 
 " Piercejield, March 3, 1703. 
 
 " We were within an hour of setting off from 
 hence, and intended to have seen you, my dearest 
 friend, to-morrow; when we were prevented, and I 
 may say it is the only time T have ever rejoiced at 
 being prevented seeing you. Last night, after my 
 Mother wrote to you, we were informed by a friend, 
 that there was an execution against my Father. At 
 
 ten o'clock at night came to take possession 
 
 of the house. It was secured, so that they could 
 not enter; but you may imagine the horror of our 
 situation in that night of storms. Fortunately, the 
 next day being Sunday, we had to watch only till 
 twelve o'clock; and to-day we were preparing to go 
 away at eight this evening, when we heard that my 
 Father's attorney was come from London, that the 
 money was provided, and the execution stopped. 
 There \s to be a meeting of creditors to-morrow, 
 who are to have an exaft statement of all the con- 
 cerns of the Bank. My Mother supported herself 
 
 C 2
 
 [ 20 ] 
 
 wonderfully last night, but to-day she was quite ex- 
 haustedj till this news revived her a little. Mr. and 
 
 Mrs. were in dreadful anxiety this morning, 
 
 but I hope they too are a little comforted;* in short 
 the prospect now appears Ijright to what it did two 
 hours ago, and we shall all, I hope, bear whatever 
 happens with fortitude. Above all, my beloved 
 friend, I entreat you not to be uneasy, for I trust all 
 will be well. JNIy only apprehension has been for 
 mj^ Mother; and I confess it has been hard work to 
 appear cheerful, when I saw her agitated to the 
 greatest degree, and knew I could in no way be of 
 the Icust use; but she shewed great resolution, when- , 
 ever it was necessary. My Father now writes in 
 better spirits, and I am happy to sec her a little 
 
 * In the summer of the year 1791, when the Bank wa> 
 in a very flourislaing state, Mr. , who was the neigh- 
 bour and fiiend of Mr. S — , put his name in the firm, without 
 advancing any part of the capital, or receiving any share of 
 the emoluments ; but on condition that his son should be 
 taken into the house as a clerk, and be admitted a partner on 
 his coming of age. In consequence of this circumstance, 
 
 Mr. was involved in the misfortune which happened in 
 
 theyeai- 1793 ; to the regret of all who knew him, and par- 
 • ticularly of the S — family, as all the letters which I received 
 from them at this period strongly prove.
 
 [ 21 ] 
 
 more at ease. My Mother desires me to say a thou- 
 sand kind things for her. The servants have behaved 
 nobly, and she has had all the comfort that friends 
 can give. If she had none but you, she would be 
 rich enough; and I shall wish for nothing more 
 whilel know you are mine. Adieu, my dearest — ." 
 
 I went to Piercefield on the following day ; but I 
 will not attempt to describe the scene to which I 
 was then a witness. Affli6lions so nobly supported 
 make the sufferers objefts of envy rather than pity ; 
 a change of fortune, so sudden, and so unexpected, 
 was a great trial, but it was received in a manner to 
 command the respe£l of all who witnessed it. I had 
 long seen and admired Mrs. S — , in the situation 
 in which she seemed peculiarly formed to shine; in 
 one of the finest places in England, surrounded by 
 her lovely children, with all the elegant comforts of 
 affluence, and delighting her happy guests by the 
 fascinating charms of her conversation. Through 
 all the misfortunes which marked the period of which 
 I am now speaking, I can with truth say of Mrs. 
 S — , what she says of her beloved daughter, that I 
 do not recclleft a single instance of a murmur hav-
 
 [ 22 ] 
 
 ing escaped her, on account of the loss of fortune; 
 but there were other circumstances attending this 
 sad event, which such a heart as hers must deeply 
 feel ; and a letter which is now before me, speaks the 
 language of all that I received from her at that pe- 
 riod : " The business is again delayed. I am 
 
 averse to this prolongation of our misery, but it is a 
 
 duty we owe to to do every thing which can 
 
 be likely to save them. Oh, my friend, if this 
 amiable family were but secure, I should be no 
 longer miserable ; but as it is, the thought of their 
 situation sometimes sinks me almost to despair." 
 This was an affliction, under which even conscious 
 rc6litude was not sufficient to support herj but the 
 loss of fortune, as it was occasioned neither by ex- 
 travagance nor vice, and dignified by such condu6l 
 as secured the respeft and esteem of their friends, 
 was supported by every individual of the family with 
 truly christian fortitude and resignation. 
 
 In a few days after I went to Piercefield, my friends 
 quitted it for ever; and the young ladies spent seven 
 or eight months with us, in and near Bath. The 
 time which was thus spent with my Mother, was 
 certainly of great advantage to my young friends; 
 for she was extremely fond of them, and nothing
 
 [ 23 3 
 
 can be more just than what Mrs. S — says of her 
 peculiarly happy manner of conveying instrudion. 
 Many of their favourite pursuits had been inter- 
 rupted. They had lost the sublime scenes of Pierce- 
 field, which furnished an infinite variety of subjects 
 for the pencil. They drew extremely well, and 
 Elizabeth was completely mistress of perspeAive. 
 Her musical talents were very uncommon : she 
 played remarkably well both on the Piano-Forte and 
 Harp, but she had lost her instruments. The li- 
 brary, of which she so well knew the value, was 
 gone. Always averse to large parties, and with no 
 taste for dissipation, she readily agreed to a plan of 
 employment proposed by my Mother, and we en- 
 tered on a regular course of history, both ancient 
 and modern. At other times we studied Shake- 
 speare, Milton, and some other English poets, as 
 well as some of the Italians. We took long walks, 
 and often drew from nature. We read with great 
 attention the whole of the New Testament, Seeker's 
 Lectures on the Catechism, and several other books 
 on the same important subjedls. After my Mother 
 retired to rest, we usually studied the stars, and read 
 Bonycastle's Astronomy, which reminds rae of the 
 following circumstance :— Elizabeth told rae one
 
 [ 24 ] 
 
 evening that she did not perfe£l1y understand what 
 is said in Bonycastle, page 91, of Kepler's celebra- 
 ted calculation, by which he discovered that the 
 squares of the periods of the planets are in proportion 
 to the cubes of their distances. She wanted to know 
 how to make use of this rule, but I confessed my 
 inability to assist her. When I came down to 
 breakfast at nine the next morning, I found her with 
 a folio sheet of paper almost covered w-ith figures ; 
 and I discovered that she rose as soon as it was light, 
 and by means of Bonycastle's Arithmetic, had learnt 
 to extra6l the cube root, and had afterwards calcu- 
 lated the periods and distances of several planets, so 
 as clearly to shew the accurAcy of Kepler's rule, and 
 the method of employing it. In such pursuits as I 
 have mentioned, I could accompany her ; but in 
 others she had a much better assistant in our mu- 
 tual friend. Miss H — , who, fortunately for us, spent 
 four months in our neighbourhood, and was the 
 companion of our studies and our pleasures. She 
 ^ed Miss S — to the study of the German language, 
 of which she was afterwards particularly fond. 
 She assisted her in Botanical and other pursuits, as 
 well as in different branches of the Mathematics. I 
 do not know when Elizabeth began to learn Spanish,
 
 ^ [ 25 ] 
 
 but it was at an earlier period than that of wliich I 
 am now speaking; when she was with us, she 
 seemed to read it without difficulty, and some hours 
 every morning before breakfast were devoted to 
 these studies. She acquired some knowledge of the 
 Arabic and Persian languages during the following 
 winter, when a very fine dictionary and grammar, in 
 the possession of her Brother, led her thoughts to 
 Oriental literature. She began to study Latin and 
 Greek, in the year 1794, when Mr. C — 's excellent 
 library, and improving conversation, opened to her 
 an inexhaustible fund of information. She studied 
 Hebrew from my Mother's Bible, with the assist- 
 ance of Parkhurst ; but she had no regular instruc- 
 tion in anv language except French. Her love of 
 Ossian led her to acquire some knowledge of the 
 Erse language, but the want of books made it im- 
 possible for her to pursue that study as far as she 
 wished. Some extracSls from her letters will shew 
 how she was employed during the following years, 
 
 " August, 1793. 
 
 ^' We never take a pleasant walk, or read any 
 thing interesting, but some one says, ' I wish Miss 
 H — were here,' and you may be sure that nobody
 
 [ 26 ] 
 
 contradicts it. Besides all other reasons for this 
 wish, T want to shew }ou every pretty passage I 
 meet with in German, which I do not like half so 
 well, now that 1 have no one to enjoy it with me. 
 I have read none since you left me, except two books 
 
 of Dr. R 's, Der Golden Spiegel j .which is an 
 
 imitation of an Eastern Tale, by way of making 
 dissertations upon government. It is entertaining, 
 and there is an account of a happy valley, that 
 makes one long to live in it. The other book is 
 WiesscrCs Poansy some of which are very pretty.'* 
 
 " October 15. 
 '* I have a nice colle6lion of German books, which 
 Miss B — has borrowed fur me. There is the Iliad, 
 which seems to me a very good translation. I think 
 the sound is more regularly fine than Pope's, and 
 some of the descriptions of nature are much superior 
 to his; but the tender sentiments, which the learned 
 say are not in the original, are not to be traced in 
 the German translation. In that respedl we shall 
 all prefer Pope. There is the Messiah, which I am 
 reading a second time with more pleasure than the 
 first. A very pretty colletlion of Poems by differ- 
 ent persons ; a Novel ; and a book of Plays; so you
 
 [ 27 ] 
 
 see I am well furnished at present. I wish I had 
 you to enjoy them with me. 
 
 " My favourite study just now is Algebra ; and I 
 find by Saunderson, that if we had consulted proper 
 books; we should never have spent so much time in 
 measuring squares and circles ; for though by the 
 means we used, (which were perfe6lly right,) it may 
 be brought inconceivably near, it is impossible to 
 
 prove it mathematically exa6t. For example: 
 
 I hope you will not have the head-ache when this 
 arrives, or you will wish my Mathematics at Bath 
 again; but when I have learnt any thing that we 
 used to puzzle about together, I am never easy till 
 you know it." 
 
 " November 1 7 . 
 " Send me no Latin quotations, for I understand 
 them only when the translation comes with them. 
 T have just finished Klopstock's Messiah, which I 
 have been reading again, as I did not above half 
 understand it before. There is more of it than there 
 was in Miss — 's, which was, I believe, only fifteen 
 books. This is in twenty-two books, and is con- 
 tinued to the Ascension, with many hymns and 
 songs afterwards. He supposes at that time a day
 
 C 23 ] 
 
 of judgment^ and that Abandona was pardoned. Pray 
 
 inform Miss of this, for I remember hearing 
 
 her regret his fate." 
 < 
 
 ^^ J prill y 1794. 
 " I have not thought of you the less because I 
 have been too idle to write. You know ii is an old 
 fault of mine, and it will only be wasting your time 
 and my own to make an apology as long as my 
 silence- I am very rioh in German booksjust now, 
 for Dr. R — , who has a great many, has given me 
 the cntre of his library, to take whatever I like. I 
 have got your friend Kliest, which I think delightfulj 
 Haller's Poems ; and Zimmerman's Einsamkeit, 
 which pleases me more than almost any book I ever 
 read. How much am I oblio;ed to you for teaching: 
 me German ! I assure you 1 never read a beautiful 
 passage, without thinking it is to you I owe the 
 pleasure I enjoy, and wishing you could enjoy it 
 with me; for after all it is but a selfish sort of thing 
 to read merely to entertain oneself. There are some 
 ideas in Zimmerman upon a future state very like 
 your book.* 1 envy you extremely in reading Virgil. 
 I must learn Latin some day or other. At present 
 * Essay on the Happiness of the Life to Come.
 
 [ 29 ] 
 
 1 am puzzling at Persian and Arabic, and I mean 
 to begin Hebrew. I get on least with Spanish, for 
 I have been able to meet with only one book since I 
 read Don Quixotte, which was ihe History of the 
 Incas, by Garctllasso dela Vega. T was very much 
 pleased with it, though it is very long, and in some 
 parts tedious. I wish I had your patience to trans- 
 late from one language to another, for I believe it is 
 the only way of being perfed in any ; but I succeed 
 so ill in writing, of any kind, that I never like to 
 attempt it. I met with a thought in Haller, which 
 was new to me, and pleased me much; but, per- 
 haps, if you have met with it before, it may not 
 strike you as it did me. Speaking of the weakness 
 of reason without revelation, he says, 
 
 « Vemunft kan, wie der mond, ein trost der dunkeln Zeiten, 
 *' Uns durch die braune nacht mit halbem schimmer leiten; 
 " Der waiheit morgen-roht zeigt erst die wahre welt, 
 « Winn Gottes sonnen-licht durch unser dammrung fallt."* 
 
 * " Reason, like the moon, a consolation in darkness, can 
 guide us with its faint rays through the dusky night. The 
 morning dawn of truth shews the real world, when the light 
 of the sun breaks through our twilight."— ^a//?r on Reaion, 
 Superstition, an J Injidelitt/.
 
 [ 30 ] 
 
 ** I forgot to thank you for all the trouble you look 
 about Canada. It was very kind indeed, and there- 
 fore like yourself; but I am sorry to say it was to no 
 purpose, for it is entirely given up; much against 
 my will, for I was delighted with the idea, and 
 wished excessively to go, but I despair of ever seeing 
 it now." 
 
 " London, Feb. 1795. 
 *' I believe I told you I should learn Latin before 
 I saw you next, and Shirley* was a very good place 
 for it, I therefore began soon after I went there; and 
 I have read Caesar's Commctitaries, Livy, and some 
 volumes of Cicero, amongst which I almost wish 
 the letters to his friends had not been, for they shew 
 his whole charadter to be so much put on, that they 
 have let him down n)any degrees in my opinion. 
 As to Persian, all my books are at Bath, so that I 
 shall most probably forget the little I knew when I 
 
 * The scat of J — C — , esq; where Miss S — speni 
 some time in the latter part of the year ITOi, and much of 
 the following year. To tliis gentleman, and to his lady 
 who is nearly related to Mr. S — , the family always acknow- 
 ledge the higliest obligations. — See Mrs. S — to Dr. R — , 
 in the Appendix.
 
 [ 31 ] 
 
 saw you last. I have met with neither German nor 
 Spanish books; so that if it were not for Latin, I 
 should be quite in despair. I am verv impatient to 
 begin Virgil. 
 
 " March \\, 179-5. 
 *^ I have just finished the second book of the 
 Georgics, and was particularly delighted with the 
 last eighty- four verses. The description of the 
 storm in the first book I think is very fine." 
 
 « Shirley, July 28, 1795. 
 ^' I think as you do of Emilia Galotti. Die 
 Riiuber I never saw. Indeed I have scarcely read 
 any German or Spanish since I left Bath. I must 
 tell yovi that I cannot help being quite reconciled to 
 Cicero. I have gone through all that I can find 
 here of his works, and am so fully persuaded that a 
 man who could write as he does, could have uo great 
 faults, that I must, with your leave, forgive his little 
 ones. If you have not yet met with it, only read, as 
 a sample, the first book of his Tusculan disputations, 
 * de contemnenda morte,' and I think you will agree 
 with me, that with the addition of Christianity to 
 confirm his suppositions, and re£lify a few mistakes
 
 [ 32 ] 
 
 ill them, and the knowledge of the true stale of the 
 universe, no do6lrine can be more perfedl than hlsj 
 and tliat half the modern books on the subje6l might 
 have been spared, had the writers of them, before 
 they began, read this dialogue. 
 
 " 1 have just fuiishcd Clarendon's History of the 
 Rebellion, which Miss B — long ago desired me to 
 read. It is extremely interesting and instruiSlive. 
 Here is another of her favourites, Spencer, which I 
 once gave up in despair, but which 1 am very glad 
 I have read, for I am charmed with it, and I think 
 some of the lesser poems arc even superior to the 
 Fairy Queen. "We have read Mr. Gisborne's book* 
 aloud, and all the party was extremely pleased 
 with it. 
 
 " I have got a new Atlas of all the remarkable 
 fixed stars that are visible to us, without the figures. 
 I would shew it to you, if you would meet me oa 
 the wings of Pegasus, or any other convenient place 
 you vfill appoint in the upper regions, for it does 
 not seem probable that we should soon see each 
 other in these below. Have you read Horace vet ? 
 Pray do not lose a moment; he is indeed delight- 
 ful," 
 
 * On the Duties of Man.
 
 [ 33 3 
 
 " Shirley, October 5, 17D5. 
 '^ I have not seen Gellert. Oberon I have read, 
 and was much pleased with some parts of it. It is 
 a little in the style of Ariosto. Pray tell Miss — 
 (since she does me the honour to enquire,) that of 
 Spencer's lesser poems I was most pleased with 
 Astrophel, some of the Eclogues, particularly Janu- 
 ary and June, and the Hymn in honour of Beauty, 
 which is as well written as if he had studied Lavater. 
 In have just finished Froissard, which, though rather 
 tedious, I found very entertaining, and in a much 
 pleasanter style than most of the modern French 
 writers. Immediately before this great undertaking, 
 I read the Memoirs of Petrarch, which made a very 
 good line of history, containing the whole of the 
 fourteenth century. With this book I was exces- 
 sively pleased. It is impossible not to love Petrarch, 
 if it were only for crying when his father threw 
 Cicero and Virgil into the fire. He was a passion- 
 ate admirer of Cicero, and I think a strong resem- 
 blance may be traced between their characters, tho' 
 the circumstances in which they lived were so 
 different. You see in both the same love of glory, 
 the same patriotism, the same high opinion of him- 
 self, which he endeavours to conceal /rom others^ 
 
 D
 
 [ 34 ] 
 
 perhaps even from himself, by a cloak of humility. 
 You discover in each an equal warmth of friendship; 
 and I cannot help thinking that if Cicero had met 
 with Laura, or Petrarch been consul in the flou- 
 rishing times of the Roman Republic, the former 
 would have been the poet, and the latter the orator, 
 I hope I have improved a little in Botany this sum- 
 mer as well as you/* 
 
 " March 3, 1796. 
 " Have you seen Mason's new volume of Poems? 
 There are some very beautiful things in it. I have 
 been feasting lately on German poetry. The Graff 
 von Stolberg ; Holly j Matthison; and a translation 
 of Young. I have been much pleased with Zim- 
 merman's Nationalstoltz. My ears are stunned, and 
 my patience exhausted, by the ridiculous and con- 
 tradi£lory reports that are incessantly vociferated on 
 all sides of me. No one can speak or write of any 
 thing but the French. If they have not murdered or 
 enslaved our persons, they have at least taken com- 
 plete possession of our minds, and banished every 
 idea of v/hich they are not the objeft. As you 
 probably hear as much, and are as tired of them as 
 myself, I will only assure you, that they have not
 
 [ 35 ] 
 
 driven from my brain the idea of you, nor from my 
 heart the tender afledion with which I am, &c." 
 
 On the 22d of May 1796, Mrs. and Miss S — set 
 out for Ireland, where they stayed only three or four 
 months. The following letter was written the day 
 before Elizabeth left Bath. The dejedion expressed 
 in it was occasioned by sorrows of a very different 
 description from the loss of fortune. 
 
 " Bathy May 21. 
 
 ^' My lazy fit has lasted so long this time, that 
 I dare not venture to make any apology for it, and 
 scarcely should I dare to write again, but that I 
 cannot resolve to quit this island without once more 
 assuring my dear friend, that my esteem and affec- 
 tion are not in the least abated by absence, and that 
 I love Jier exadly as much as if I had told her so an 
 hundred times over. 
 
 '^ My mother and I set off to-morrow morning 
 
 for Ireland. I^ady and Miss — — have sent 
 
 us a most obliging invitation to their house, and I 
 hope we shall pass a day and a night there. Do 
 you not envy us this visit ? If we could carry you 
 and our beloved friend with us, it would be more 
 D 2
 
 [ 36 j 
 
 than earthly happiness. On the whole I am ex- 
 tremely pleased with the idea of our expedition ; for 
 besides my natural love of rambling, and of seeing 
 and knowing every shing that is worth the trouble, 
 I am weary of the world. To quit it is not in my 
 power; but in leaving England, I shall leave the 
 only world with which I am acquainted, the scene 
 of- all our miseries. You never before heard me 
 complain of miseries. I never before had any to 
 complain of. Against this negative pleasure in 
 quitting this country, is to be set the positive pain of 
 leaving some very dear friends; but I seldom see 
 you and Miss B — , and I shall still have the con- 
 solation of loving you. I shall leave my K — with 
 oreat regret, but we must learn to bear it. We are 
 happy in the thoughts of seeing my Father, who 
 has been very uncomfertably situated during the 
 last year. We talk of returning in the autumn, and 
 I am glad it is talked of, because it makes my Mo- 
 ther quit England with less reluctance than she 
 otherwise would; but I strongly suspe6l that we shall 
 cither take up our abode in Ireland, or go abroad 
 wherever the regiment may happen to be ordered ; 
 ' but this is written in the book of fate, and no 
 human eye can read it.' I am grieved at going
 
 [ 37 ] 
 
 from Bath just before you come. I have not seen 
 you these two years, and I may be drowned, I may 
 never return, I may never see you again till ' the 
 life to come/ By the by, have you read Lavater's 
 Geheime Tagebuck, Kc. ? There is in it a quota- 
 tion from a sermon by his friend Pfenningen, so 
 exaftly like your little book, that I wanted you to 
 read it with me. I can give you no account of my 
 studies, but that I have read nothing in the last 
 half year. My Mother and I are going to take leave 
 of our dear Miss B — . I wish you were here to 
 comfort her, she wants it sadly ; I hope constantly 
 to hear of her from you. Do not forget me^ and 
 be assured whatever changes may happen to me, of 
 fortune, or habitation, my sincere affetStion for my 
 Mary will never change. Adieu, perhaps for ever!" 
 
 The visit at more than answered the expect- 
 ation of my friends, and the very obliging manner 
 in which they were received, was highly gratifying 
 to mc. I had a letter from Miss S — on this 
 subje6l, which I particularly regret; but it was 
 destroyed with many others. Mrs. and Miss S— 
 were much pleased with what they saw of Ireland, 
 and ver)' grateful for many civilities received there;
 
 [ 38 ] 
 
 but I have nothing written at that time except the 
 following short letter to Miss H — , written from 
 the county of Sligo, 
 
 " August 8, 1796. 
 *^ I have not time to say half what I think and 
 feel in answer to your last letter, my dearest Mary ; 
 I will call you so since you like it, though I had 
 forgot that I was ever so impertinent to do it before. 
 I frequently wish for you and our beloved friend, to 
 make you wander through a valley, between moun- 
 tains tossed together in all the wild and rugged forms 
 imaginable, with an hundred cascades dashing from 
 their summits, and forming a beautiful lake at the 
 bottom; to shew you the fine effe^ls of light and 
 shade on the hills when the sun shines; and when 
 he does not, the clouds hiding their heads, descend- 
 ing half way down them, and sometimes entirely 
 blotting ihem out of the landscape; then breaking 
 away by degrees, and ascending like smoke. I never 
 before knew so well what Ossian meant by the thick 
 mist of the valley, and the ragged skirts of a cloud 
 as it sails slowly over the dark heath. I often think 
 I see the grey cloud of which his father's robe is
 
 [ 39 ] 
 
 made. I hope we may meet in the winter; but 
 sometimes I almost despair. However, I shall not 
 be less in one place than another, your tenderly 
 affedionate friend." 
 
 Mrs. and Miss S — returned to Bath in Oflobefj 
 and my Mother, who was extremely ill, received 
 from them every comfort which friendship could 
 bestow. Elizabeth spent part of the following 
 winter with us. Perhaps the awful scene she then 
 witnessed, might give a peculiarly serious turn to a 
 mind which was always disposed to deep refleiSlion, 
 and fervent piety. The following refle6lions are 
 taken from her little pocket-books, and were written 
 in 1796 and 1/97. 
 
 " I find it a very good method to write down my 
 thoughts as they occur, for an idea often strikes me, 
 which, turning to something else, I forget imme- 
 diately; but considering it as much as is necessary 
 to write it down, makes me more acquainted with 
 the subje6l, and makes my thoughts more 7)ij/ own. 
 For want of some such plan, I see people dreaming 
 away their lives in ina6tivity of mind, without form- 
 ing any opinions of their own, till from paying no
 
 [ 40 ] 
 
 attention to their thoughts, they come not to think 
 at all." 
 
 '' When we contemplate the ways of Providence, 
 we are like a person unskilled in painting, who looks 
 at a half-finished pi6lure; he is immediately struck 
 with the want of harmony in the colouring, and the 
 improper disposition of light and shade, and thinks 
 he shews his wisdom by finding faults in the whole 
 plan, and in the execution of every part j but let him 
 wait till it is finished, and he will then be forced to 
 acknowledge that every stroke has contributed to the 
 beauty of the whole, arid that what he considered as 
 defe*3:s, now appear the chief beauties of the piece. 
 Perhaps there is none but an artist equal to the 
 painter of the pifture, who can, before it is finished, 
 imagine what effeiSi will be produced; unless then we 
 can suppose the creature to be equal to the Creator, 
 and the picture to rise up against the painter, let us 
 not presume to call in question the ordinances of 
 God, but wait till his plans are accomplished, when 
 we shall be convinced that 'whatever is, is right!' 
 
 "Is the capacity of man finite ? Is God infinite ? 
 How can the finite comprehend the infinite ?
 
 [ 41 1 
 
 *' The pity of the world appears to be very much 
 misplaced; it is entirely withdrawn from those who 
 have fallen into misfortune through their own fault, 
 and most liberally bestowed on the virtuous unfor- 
 tunate; but the virtuous have no need of pity. They 
 never can be miserable, whatever may befal them; 
 and it is their place to look down with pity on the 
 wicked^ whether glorying in the smiles of fortune, 
 or despairing at her frowns." 
 
 '^ I do not see that the failure of intelleft which 
 we sometimes observe in old people, and in young 
 ones in some cases of sickness, is any argument 
 against the immortality of the soul. We are igno- 
 rant how the soul will acl after its separation from 
 the body ; but we know that during their union, 
 neither can do any thing without the assistance of 
 the other; therefore, when the faculties decay, we 
 are not to suppose that the soul is injured, but that 
 the organs, whatever they are, by which it commu- 
 nicates with the body, and by which ideas are pre- 
 sented to it, have sustained some damage. As, if 
 a man become blind, wc do not say that his soul 
 is changed, but that the organ by which images 
 were presented to it, is injured ; and accordingly, if
 
 [ 42 ] 
 
 his eye^ are cured, the soul is just as able to distin- 
 guish obje6ls as ever. In the same manner, the 
 sick person, whose nerves (or whatever it is on which 
 the soul immediately a<Sls) have recovered their 
 tone, is able to think, and speak, and understand, 
 as formerly. The workman is not in fault, but 
 some part of his machine is out of order." 
 
 *' The most difficult vice to conquer, is pride; I 
 mean a high idea of our own merits, and a spirit of 
 rebellion. This came in Eve's way; she fell, and 
 perhaps there is not one of her posterity who would 
 not have done the same." 
 
 " Reason is the most unreasonable of all things, 
 for without common sense to guide it, it never knows 
 where to stop." 
 
 '^ The most inconsistent thing in the world is to 
 expert consistency of man, at the same time that 
 we know him to be entirely dependent on circum- 
 stances. What we have most earnestly wished, is 
 often proved by events to have been the worst thing 
 that could happen to us. We do, and must, change 
 <var opinions according to every circumstance that
 
 [ 43 1 
 
 occurs, unless we could know all things, and take 
 in the present, past, and future, at a glance." 
 
 '^ It is surprising how the opinions of the same 
 person change in the course of a few years. It is 
 therefore improving, as well as amusing, to write 
 down the thoughts that occur, in order to look them 
 over after some time, and see in what respects I 
 may have advanced, in vchat receded, and re6lify 
 errors/' 
 
 *^ I have no idea of heaping up money, or of any 
 pleasure in saying so much is mine ; it is not mine 
 till I use it. I shall therefore, whenever I have any, 
 lay it out as I find proper occasions; trusting to that 
 Providence which has never suffered me to want, 
 even when I had no probable means of subsisting, 
 to supply me when I stand in need. Never refuse 
 to give to-day, lest you should want to-morrow." 
 
 '* How light are all the troubles of this world to 
 those who value every thing it contains according to 
 its real worth ! They may appear insensible to those 
 who reckon .by a different standard, but they can 
 bear even this imputation, for they know the value
 
 [ 44 ] 
 
 of human applause. How happy should we be, if 
 we could always feel^ as we sometimes think!" 
 
 *^ I cannot bear to hear people say, * such a per- 
 son did me favour, but I have returned it, and am 
 no longer obliged to him.' If any one does me a 
 favour, without the least expeftation or wish of a 
 reward, though it should afterwards be in my power 
 to do ten times more for that person, I tan never 
 repay the original obligation, which from its nature 
 does not admit of any recompense, but remains for 
 ever in its full force." 
 
 " One great cause of the republican spirit which 
 prevails at present, appears to have been a false prin- 
 ciple in education, that it is necessary to convince 
 a child by reason before you expe61: him to obey. 
 Now reason, being the faculty of comparing ideas 
 already presented to the mind, cannot exist in a 
 child, to whom few or no ideas have been presented ; 
 and no one was ever convinced by the reasoning of 
 another. It is therefore impossible to convince 
 him; and if he be suffered to do as he please till he 
 be capable of reasoning, it is a great chance if his 
 understanding be not so warped by the pra«Slice of
 
 [ 45 ] 
 
 evil, that he mistake it for good; and it is most pro- 
 bable that he may have contracted such a habit of 
 disobedience, as not willingly to submit to the laws 
 of his country, or even to those of his God." 
 
 '^ The progress of understanding is like learning 
 to play on a musical instrument. Education does 
 not create it, any more than a music-master creates 
 fingers, it only gives us the power of using them 
 rightly. Give an instrument to a person who has 
 never heard music, and who is ignorant of the prin- 
 ciples of it, he will probably produce some sound, 
 but it will be discordant and without meaning. 
 This I should suppose the state of a man who has 
 always lived on a desolate island by himself. He 
 will have found the use of his bodily organs, but 
 will scarcely have discovered his mental faculties. 
 On the contrary, a person who has been taught the 
 principles of music, makes himself perfe«Slly ac- 
 quainted with them by pra6lice, till from playing the 
 music of others, he at length composes new on the 
 same principles; as he learns to use his understand- 
 ing first by reading and hearing the opinions of others, 
 and then forms his own. Thus the soul and body 
 are reciprocally as the musician and the instrument,"
 
 [ 46 ] 
 
 " I find nothing so effedlual In abating self-con- 
 ceit as to look on people who evidently have quite as 
 high an opinion of themselves in any given respedl, 
 as I have, and to see that they are mistaken. It is 
 very possible I may be so too." 
 
 '' It is the fashion now to consider the abilities 
 of v^^omen as being on an equality with those of men. 
 T do not deny that there may be many women whose 
 abilities, and still more their powers of conversation, 
 are superior to those of the generality of men; but 
 there never was among women a Milton, a New- 
 ton, &c." 
 
 '' The more talents and good qualities we have 
 received, the more humble we ought to be, because 
 we have the less merit in doing right." 
 
 *^ How very narrow are all the limits of the 
 human understanding! Our situation in this world 
 is like that of a person groping about in the dark. 
 Whatever path of science we turn into^ we meet 
 with no obstacles that may not easily be surmounted, 
 we flatter ourselves that we have made great disco- 
 veries, and think there will be no end of our pro-
 
 [ 47 ] 
 
 gress till we perfe«Slly understand every thing; when 
 on a sudden we knock our heads against the mud 
 walls of our habitation, and are beat back by the 
 blow to the centre of ignorance from whence we 
 set out." 
 
 " No event which I thought unfortunate has 
 ever happened to me, but I have been convinced, at 
 some time or other, that it was not a misfortune, 
 but a blessing. I can never then in reason com- 
 plain of any thing that happens, because, I am per- 
 suaded it is permitted for some good purpose." 
 
 ** I am surprised, on observing my thoughts, to 
 find how very rarely they arc employed in any thing 
 worth thinking about, how seldom they are even 
 common sense. Conscience tells me that a great 
 part of my life is wasted in foolish imaginations and 
 idle dreams." 
 
 *' We cannot have a more striking proof of the 
 incapacity of man, than the methods he takes to hide 
 from himself ills own ignorance. When he meets 
 with any thing in nature which he can neither ex- 
 plain nor understand, he invents a name, by which
 
 [ 48 ] 
 
 he imposes on the world with an appearance o( 
 wisdom J and sometimes even fancies himself wise, 
 because he has not acknowledged his ignorance. For 
 instance, we pretend to know what it is that moves 
 the planets in their orbits, and we call it attra6lion ; 
 though it is plain we are no wiser than if the word 
 had never been used. We meet with a fossil of 
 which^we cannot account for the formation; a plant 
 or an animal differing from any we have before seen, 
 we say it is a lusiis nature. Some person is 
 affefted v^'ith a disorder we do not imderstand, it is 
 immediately said to be nervous. If two or three of 
 our acquaintance are affecSled in the same manner, 
 it is a disorder that goes about, it is in the 'air; 
 though perhaps the air has no more to do with it 
 than any of the other elements ; and each person, 
 after uttering one of these wise sentences, sits down 
 satisfied that he has completely explained his subjed. 
 
 " It is not surprising that so fev/, so very few, 
 geniuses appear in the world, if we consider how 
 many circumstances are necessary to their produc- 
 tion: for it is not enough that nature has given a 
 bold and enterprising spirit, capable of the greatest 
 undertakings, if the shell it inhabits is rooted to one
 
 L 49 J 
 
 spot, and compelled to labour for daily bread : it U 
 not enough that she has created a poet, if the mind, 
 full of ardour and enthusiasm, be doomed to plod the 
 dull round of trade. She has in vain bestowed the 
 faculty of deep investigation, and of tracing the hid- 
 den causes of things, on one, who, in the constant 
 hurry of aAion, finds no leisure for meditation ; or 
 given to a woman a spirit of curiosity able to make 
 useful discoveries in every branch of science, which, 
 from a narrow prejudice, must be confined to the 
 affairs of her neighbours. Thus I am persuaded 
 genius often exists, but lies concealed, sometimes 
 even from the possessor of it, for want of occasions 
 to call it forth." 
 
 " ThEy are most vain, who sai/ they have no 
 vanity: for no one ever thought that the want of va- 
 nity he boasts of, proceeded from want of merit ; he 
 father thinks that he excels all maftkind in having 
 a mind superior to vanity; and what is this opinion 
 but the summit of vanity? " 
 
 "The greatest misfortune in the world is to 
 have more learning than good sense.'*
 
 [ 50 ] 
 
 *' Many people find fault with those who study 
 languages, and say they study only words, and forget 
 ideas; but those who do so never will learn any 
 number of languages, for it is totally impossible to 
 remember so great a number of words as is con- 
 tained in one language without affixing ideas to 
 them. The truth is, those who learn languages to 
 any purpose, study ideas o»/y, through the medium 
 of words their signs. Unless we clearly understand 
 the sign, we cannot comprehend the thing signified. 
 Those who consider this matter at all, must acknow- 
 ledge that there are very few words in the English 
 language which have any meaning in English, but 
 that they are chiefly derived from the Saxon, French, 
 Latin, Greek; and those again from the Hebrew, 
 ^nd other Eastern languages. It follows therefore, 
 that those only who understand all those languages, 
 (perhaps many more might be added,) perfectly 
 understand English; and those who are acquainted 
 with none of them, speak the words they have learnt 
 from custom, like a parrot, but without clearly un-i 
 derstanding the ideas which are meant to be con- 
 veyed by them. The study of languages is therefore 
 not only pleasing and profitable for the sake of read- 
 ing the poetry, and other books which cannot be
 
 [ 51 ] 
 
 translated ; but it gives a much higher relish for th« 
 beauties of our own language, by enabling us to feel 
 the force of every expression, which a common 
 teader passes over without observation." 
 
 ** Those who know a little are very anxious to 
 reform every thing ; those who know more, are 
 convinced of the impossibility of compleat reform- 
 ation, and therefore are inclined to leave every thing 
 as they found it. Those who understand French, 
 or Latin, or German, derive all English words from 
 which ever of those languages they happen to 
 be acquainted with, and endeavour to write and 
 pronounce them accordingly, and certainly our 
 language has suffered much from these pretended 
 reformers. On the contrary, if they were to make 
 themselves acquainted with all the languages above 
 mentioned, they would probably discover that they 
 had been mistaken in many of their etymologies. 
 The English tongue is perhaps more mixed than any 
 other, and its corruptions are chiefly owing to half- 
 karned reformers. This reasoning is applicable to 
 all schemes o^ general reformation. We had better 
 not meddle with yfihdX we do not understand j and if 
 E 2
 
 [ 52 ] 
 
 we put the question home, what is it that we do 
 understand?'* 
 
 " It appears to me probable, that in the origlnalf 
 janguage, all the nouns, and the roots of verbs, 
 (which were the third person singular of the prete- 
 rite,) were monosyllables, perhaps consisting of not 
 more than two letters; and that from thence the 
 different tenses of the verbs, and the derivations of 
 the nouns, were formed, by the addition of a letter 
 before or after. The confusion at Babel might 
 consist in sonrc men's being deprived of the power 
 of pronouncing certain letters.** 
 
 "From the little information I can collecl by 
 tracing languages towards their source, it appears 
 probable that when the inhabitants of the earth 
 quarrelled at Babel, and dispersed in consequence. 
 Ham turned, as Is generally allowed, towards Africa, 
 where Egypt was afterwards called by his name, and 
 by that of his son Misraim. Shem remained in 
 the western parts of Asia, and spread from thence 
 over Europe. This opinion is founded on the very 
 strong traces of the Persian language which yet re^ 
 maia in the Celtic and all European tongues, not
 
 [ 53 ] 
 
 excepting Greek and Latin ; though the modern. 
 Persian, with which I compare them, is itself de- 
 rived from the Pehlevi, the ancient language of Per- 
 sia, which probably had a much greater affinity with 
 the Celtic. Noah says, in the 9th chapter of Gene- 
 sis, ' May God extend Japhet, and may he inhe- 
 rit the tents of Shem." In the 10th chapter it is 
 said, that the islands were peopled by the descend- 
 ants of Japhet. From these circumstances I con- 
 clude that the family of Japhet went eastward 
 from Babel, till, coming to the sea, some went over 
 it to the islands within sight, which form the East- 
 ern Archipelago; and others followed the coast 
 northwards, till they came to some point from 
 whence they could see America. Thither some of 
 them went; while others spread themselves west- 
 ward, and these people I take to be the barbarians 
 of the north, who afterwards over-ran all Europe, 
 and who were the same as the wandering Tartars, 
 their brethren, now are. Thus the prophecy is ful- 
 filled, for Japhet is indeed extended, and at this day 
 inhabits the tents of Shem all over Europe. Thij 
 theory seems to me to derive great force from the 
 similarity of manners between the wandering tribes 
 of the north, the Tartars, and the Americans ; for
 
 C 54 ] 
 
 though some nations of America, from a long resi- 
 dence in one place, have acquired a degree of civili- 
 zation, yet there is always a tradition of their having 
 been in a wild state. It is reasonable to suppose the 
 descendants of Japhet, inconstantly travelling about, 
 would lose all the knowledge they had gained from 
 Noah, except such as was absolutely necessary for 
 their subsistence. We find the descendants of Shem 
 alone, who remained nearly stationary, and the 
 Egyptians and Chinese who settled soon after they 
 left Babel, had leisure to cultivate the sciences 
 before the elements of them were lost, from my 
 Ignorance of the Chinese language, I am at a loss 
 to determine whether the inhabitants of China are 
 descended from Shem or Japhet; the position of the 
 country would incline one to believe the latter, 
 though their manners, so unlike their Tartar neigh- 
 bours, seem to contradict it j yet this objetlion may 
 be done away, by supposing them to settle imme- 
 diately after the dispersion, which appears probable 
 from their reckoning the cycle of sixty years from a 
 period so remote as 2277 B. C. which answers ex- 
 actly to the building of Babel. Their language 
 consists entirely of monosyllables, which, with their 
 known dislike of innovation in every thing, inclines
 
 r 55 ] 
 
 me to think that it may perhaps differ less than any 
 other from the original language, or at least from 
 that of Noah." 
 
 ''We laugh at Erostratus for setting fire to the 
 temple of Diana at Ephesus, that his name might be 
 remembered; but however ridiculous and foolish his 
 ambition might be, it was the same which has 
 always influenced and annoyed mankind. Even so 
 early as an hundred years after the deluge, we have 
 a great instance of it recorded, in all men's joining 
 in building the tower of Babel, ' to make themselves 
 a name.' Since that time to what end has Alexan- 
 der, and all the other conquerors of antiquity, waded 
 through blood, if not to be talked of, and that their 
 names might be remembered? Even amongst those 
 we call barbarians, the warrior rushes headlong into 
 danger, that the song of the Bard may rise in his 
 praise, and his deeds of valour be remembered. Nor 
 is the mischief of tliis passion confined to blood- 
 shed. Men will overturn all the principles of the 
 world, and publish the most extravagant doctrines, 
 merely to be talked of. It is surely impossible that 
 Hume could believe his own system ; he was only 
 Toracious of literary fame. The same might be said
 
 C 56 ] 
 
 of Voltaife and his associates. It was the vanity of 
 advancing something new, and making a revolution 
 in the opinions of men, which prompted them in 
 their writings. The passion was given to excite us 
 to good deeds; but when men have no disposition 
 to distinguish themselves by what is good, they fix 
 on some splendid evil^ which will be the most uni- 
 versally felt, and consequently the most talked of. 
 To this cause must in a great measure be attributed 
 the variety of opinions which exist in the world on 
 every subjeft; some of them so very absurd that it 
 is impossible to suppose their authors could believe 
 in them. Perhaps he thinks himself the cleverest 
 man who can persuade the world to believe the most 
 improbable fidtion." 
 
 What I have here transcribed, and much that 
 is irrecoverably lost ; the acquisitions in science 
 which I have endeavoured to trace out, as well as 
 the virtues, to which I should in vain endeavour to 
 do justice, were comprised in the short period of a 
 life not yet extended beyond the twenty-first year; 
 and many of those years were spent without a home, 
 and without a library, and under the pressure of
 
 [ 57 ] 
 
 affli6lions, which, however nobly supported, 'taught 
 even youth and innocence to mourn.* Such was 
 the life, which, when compared with the standard 
 of perfection at which she aimed, appeared in her 
 own eyes to call for the rcfletlions that conclude 
 the little book I have just transcribed, and which 
 are dated January l, 1798. 
 
 " Being now arrived at what is called years of 
 discretion, and looking back on my past life with 
 shame and confusion, when I recolleA the many 
 advantages 1 have had, and the bad use I have made 
 of them, the hours I have squandered, and the op- 
 portunities of impravement I have neglefted ; — when 
 I imagine what with those advantages I ought to be, 
 and find myself what I am; — I am resolved to en- 
 deavour to be more careful for the future, if the 
 future be granted me; to try to make amends for 
 past negligence, by employing every moment I can 
 command to some good purpose ; to endeavour to 
 acquire all the little knowledge that human nature 
 is capable of on earth, but to let the word of God 
 be my chief study, and all others subservient to it; 
 to model myself, as far as I am able, according to 
 the Gospel of Christ j to be content while my trial
 
 [ 58 ] 
 
 lasts, and when it is finished to rejoice, trusting m 
 the merits of my Redeemer. I have written these 
 resolutions to stand as a witness against me, in case 
 1 should be inclined to forget them, and to return to 
 my former indolence and thoughtlessness, because I 
 have found the inutility of mental determinations. 
 May God grant me strength to keep theml'** 
 
 In the summer of the year 1798, Miss S — was 
 with her family at Conway, from whence the two 
 next letters were written to Miss H— . 
 
 " Conway, May 26, 1798. 
 " We are all very well and very comfortable now, 
 remembering our friends only as we ought, and as I 
 trust we always shall. T wish I were sure that you 
 
 * Of this paper Mrs. S — says, " I firmly believe this 
 prayer was accepted, for I do not recoiled any instance in 
 which she could justly be accused of either indolence or 
 thoughtlessness, except on the subjedt of her health ; on that 
 point she trusted too much to the strength of a naturally 
 good constitution ; and had so little confidence in human 
 skill, that she negledled such means in the commencement of 
 ))er last illness, as in all probability would haveremoved it."
 
 C 59 ] 
 
 are equally comfortable, but knowing your contented 
 disposition, I am inclined to think you are. [ think 
 I am content; and yet to be sure I should like to 
 have you here, and explore with you all the dark 
 winding passages and broken stair-cases of this 
 beautiful Castle. There is one of the towers that 
 would make the nicest dwelling in the world. I am 
 sure you would wish to inhabit it. It stands on a 
 rock overhanging the river, which is more properly 
 an arm of the sea, and commands the finest view 
 imaginable. It consists of three circular rooms one 
 over the other; in the second of which there is a 
 semi-circular niche with a beautiful roof of groined 
 arches, supported by pillars, with a seat all round, 
 capable of containing five or six people, and three 
 windows looking on the river and its beautiful banks, 
 ,To all this fairy castle, there is nothing wanting but 
 the possibiUty of getting at it, for the timbers are 
 entirely gone, and I pine in vain to get into the 
 little niche. It certainly would be very snug, filled 
 exa6lly as one would wish; but any place would do, 
 so filled, therefore let us be content at the foot of 
 the Tower,.,. 
 
 " I am glad our dear Miss B — is so happy at her 
 Tower. We have so quick coniRuinication with
 
 C 60 ] 
 
 her, that it scarcely seems as if we were separated. 
 Perhaps we are preparing by degrees for a more 
 lasting separation from all our friends j but our fate 
 is still uncertain. We must make the best of the 
 present, and let the future shift for itself. I never 
 felt such hot weather in May as we have here ; but 
 the air is uncommonly soft as well as clear, and in 
 the evenings we. take delightful walks, and find great 
 use for our sketch-books. There is another cir- 
 cumstance that would please you, we meet with a 
 great variety of beautiful plants ; particularly, the 
 little burnet rose grows in tufts on the mountains, 
 in the marshes, and almost every where. We find 
 here, indeed, every thing we wish for, except a few 
 old friends. Our books are not arrived, but that 
 is no misfortune, for I never find time to read. 
 You will wonder what we do, and really I cannot 
 very well tell, except rambling about to take views, 
 apd finishing them a little when we return home. 
 I did flatter myself that here I should find time for 
 every thing, but either 1 am a very bad contriver, or 
 time does not stand still on any spot of the earth. 
 If any one can catch him, I think it must be yoUy 
 and I am certain you will make the best use of his 
 company."
 
 [ 01 ] 
 
 " Conway f July lo, ngs. 
 '' We are grown such vagrants that It is not 
 without many fruitless efforts that I sit down to 
 write, even to you. I believe you will not doubt 
 that my inclination makes that a lighter task than 
 if I were addressing myself to any one else 3 but I 
 am afraid, if we stay much longer amongst these 
 delightful scenes, I shall grow completely and irre- 
 coverably idle. It is not so with 5'ou, I dare say; 
 you are studying hard, and enjoying peace, quiet- 
 ness, and leisure, in your comfortable little retreat. 
 I believe I should envy you, if I were not where I 
 am. T often recolleft how we all groaned together 
 at Bath, at the idea of the unpleasant summer we 
 expeded to pass in our different lots ; and comparing 
 that idea with the happiness we actually enjoy, (of 
 avhich from our want of confidence we were so 
 particularly undeserving,) I determine never again to 
 be anxious about any thing; persuaded that all 
 events are much better disposed than if / had the 
 management of them. You will think I am begin- 
 ning to philosophise, because there is nothing at 
 present to disturb me ; but indeed I expeft a very 
 great mi*fortune. I will not think of it beforehand.
 
 [ 62 ] 
 
 ■nor complain if it happen ; this is all my philosophy- 
 can do. 
 
 "And now you must mount your old friend 
 Pegasus, and go with me to the top of Snowdon to 
 adore 4.he rising sun. If you think your steed will 
 not be tired, you may as well meet me at Caernar- 
 von at five o'clock in the evening of the seventh of 
 last month. You know, present, past, and future, 
 are all one to your nine friends. Meet me then 
 at Caernarvon, go with me into the Castle, ram* 
 ble with me through dark passages without end or 
 number, many more than I had time to go into, 
 for they are galleries leading all round the walls, and 
 round every tower, lighted only by small slits, in a 
 wnil twelve feet thick, for shooting arrows; so that 
 many hundred soldiers might be employed in de- 
 fending this castle, and be visible neither without 
 nor within. Ascend with me the Eagle Tower, 
 and count if you can the number of steps, for in- 
 deed I forgot to reckon, and having no book of 
 travels from which to extract a journal, I cannot tell 
 you. Hear Mr. C — , the barber, our cicerone, 
 very learnedly refute the opinion of Mr. Pennant, 
 that Edward II. was born in a little dark shabby 
 room in the tower, and establish his own, — that that
 
 C 63 3 
 
 event certainly took place in the large circular rooia> 
 on the first floorj acknowledging at the same time 
 that the nurse might possibly retire occasionally 
 with the child into Mr. Pennant's room. Come on 
 into another little room, and if you chuse to be re- 
 membered amongst fools, write your name upon the 
 planks which still remain. Hear a long account- 
 from Mr. C — , of a boy being let down to the bot- 
 tom of one of the towers, where there is water^ to 
 fetch up a dog that had been thrown there, and 
 discovering an iron grate, through which he saw a 
 subterraneous passage never yet explored; and hurry 
 away from the Castle, wishing to spend days and 
 weeks In examining it. 
 
 ^'^ July 12. — I find myself so idle, and my travels 
 80 much more tedious in the recital than in the 
 performance, that if I go on giving you a particular 
 account I shall never finish. I will therefore tell 
 you the rest of our adventures as briefly as possible. 
 Quitting the castle wc took a most delightful walk 
 beside the river on which it stands, to observe the. 
 outside of the building, which, as beauty is but 
 comparative, I being of the se&. of the Conwayites, 
 do not admire. We returned to the Inn; — T sup- 
 pose you are aware that we means my Mother, Mrs,
 
 C 64 J 
 
 G. S — , and I, who set out together from Conway at 
 nine the same morning; — well; we returned to the 
 Inn, and eat an enormous supper. You know tra- 
 vellers always tell you how much thev eat, but T in 
 compassion will spare you the description of every 
 dish, and how much was paid for it, because I have 
 forgotten both; however this supper is not men- 
 tioned in vain, for indeed it was not eaten tn vain* 
 As soon as we had accomplished it, we set off (about 
 eleven at night), for the foot of Snowdon, and tra- 
 velled eight miles through a fine mountainous coun- 
 try by moonlight. Before one we arrived at a little 
 hut where the guide lives, and after having him 
 called up and loaded with a basket of bread and 
 milk, and a tin box for specimens, we began our 
 march at a quarter past one. The clouds were ga- 
 thering over the mountains, and threatening us with 
 either darkness or rain. We however escaped both, 
 and were only amused with every variety they could 
 give the landscape, by hiding, or half obscuring the- 
 moon, and by blotting out, now one mountain, and 
 now another, from our view; till about two o'clock, 
 when the dawn began to appear, they covered the 
 moon, and we saw her no more. We proceeded by 
 a very easy ascent over boggy ground till half-past
 
 [ 65 ] 
 
 two, when coming suddenly to the top of the first 
 range of hills, and meeting with a violent wind 
 which blew from the quarter where the sun was to 
 rise, (for we ascended the mountain on the south- 
 west side,) Mrs. G. S — was frightened, and seeing 
 a very steep ascent before her, said she would sit 
 down and wait for our return. My Mother said 
 she would stay with her, and I proposed our all 
 going back together ; but my Mother very kindly 
 insisted on my proceeding. We therefore divided 
 provisions, the ladies returned to the hut from which 
 we had set out, and I went on with the guide, who 
 could not speak a word of English. We steered 
 our course more towards the south, and toiled up 
 several mountains, in some parts covered with loose 
 stones which had fallen from the broken summits, 
 but in general overgrown with different sorts of 
 moss, and a kind of short grass, mixed with im- 
 mense quantities of the Gallium pusillum. I picked 
 up a few other plants, but on the whole was disap- 
 pointed in the botanical way, as I found very little 
 that I had not before met with on the mountains 
 in this neighbourhood; however, this is not the 
 time of the year for mountain curiosities. I went 
 on as fast as I could, without stopping, except now 
 
 F
 
 [ 66 ] 
 
 and then for a moment to look down on the moun- 
 tains under my feet, as clouds passed over them, 
 thinking each summit I saw before me was the last, 
 and unable to gain any information from the guide 
 to satisfy my impatience 3 for I wished to be at the 
 top before sun-rise, and pink clouds began to appear 
 over the steep I was climbing. I also knew that 
 the Ladies would be very impatient for my return, 
 nor was I without anxiety on their account, as I was 
 not sure that they would find their way back to the 
 hut. These ideas occupied my mind all the way up, 
 and if that deceitful but comforting lady — Hope, 
 had not continually presented to me the range of 
 hills I was ascending as the last step in ambition's 
 ladder, I am not sure that, with all my eagerness to 
 get to the top, I should not have turned back. I 
 was debating this point very earnestly with myself, 
 in ascending an almost perpendicular green slope, 
 when on a sudden I saw at my feet an immense 
 chasm, all in darkness, and of a depth I cannot 
 guess, certainly not less than an hundred feet; I 
 should suppose much more. It answers in some 
 respeAs to the idea I have formed of the crater of a 
 volcano, but evidently is not that, as there is no 
 mark of fire, the rock being composed, as it is in
 
 [ «7 ] 
 
 general throughout this country, of a sort of slate. 
 Nor does the mountain appear to have been thrown 
 down, but the pit to have sunk inj which must pro- 
 bably have been occasioned by subterranean waters, 
 as there is water at the bottom of the pit, and 
 the mountain is full of springs. You think you are 
 now at tbe top, but you are mbtaken. I am stand- 
 ing indeed at the top of the abyss, but with a high 
 rocky peak rising on each side of me, and descend- 
 ing very near perpendicularly into the lake at the 
 bottom. I have taken a rough sketch of one of 
 these peaks, with the lake in the deepest shadow; 
 I am turning over my paper, (which the wind ren- 
 ders very difficult,) in order to draw another ; — I look 
 up, and see the upper part illuminated by a beauti- 
 ful rose-coloured light, while the opposite part still 
 casts a dark shade over its base, and conceals the sun 
 itself from my view. If I were ready to jump into 
 the pit with delight at first seeing it, my ecstacy now 
 was still greater. The guide seemed quite delighted 
 to see me so much pleased, and took care in descend- 
 ing to lead me to the edge of every precipice which 
 he had not done in going up. I however presently 
 recollefled that I was in a great hurry to get back, 
 and set off along the brink of the cavity for the 
 F 2
 
 C 68 ] 
 
 highest peak, where I arrived at a quarter past four, 
 and saw a view of which it is impossible to form an 
 idea from description. For many miles around it 
 was composed of tops of mountains, of all the various 
 forms that can be imagined; some appeared swim- 
 ming in an ocean of vapour; on others the clouds lay 
 like a cap of snow, appearing as soft as down. They 
 were all far below Snowdon, and I was enjoying the 
 finest blue sky, and the purest air I ever breathed. 
 The whole prospe6l was bounded by the sea, except 
 to the east and south-east, and the greatest part of 
 the land in those points was blotted out by clouds. 
 The sun, however, rose so far towards the north- 
 east as to be still hanginq; over the sea. I took a 
 sketch of a small part of the mountains, with some 
 of the little lakes which appear at their feetj sat 
 down, for the first time, on a circle of stones which 
 is built on the top of the hill, and made great havoc 
 in the bread and milk, in which accomplishment 
 the guide equalled, if not surpassed me; and at half- 
 past four, almost frozen, I began to descend. My 
 anxiety about my friends increased as I came near 
 the spot where I had left them ; T made all possible 
 haste; and found them safe in the hut at ten minutes 
 past six. It certainly would have been pleasanter
 
 [ 69 ] 
 
 to have liad more time, and some one to enjoy the 
 expedition with me, but I am delighted that I have 
 been, and would not for any thing give up the re- 
 colle6lion of the subHme scene. We got into the 
 carriage immediately, and went four miles further to 
 breakfast at a little village, from whence we walked 
 to the Devil's-Bridge, which is fine almost beyond 
 imagination; returned to Caernarvon to dinner, 
 walked about there in the evening, and went to bed 
 after thirty-nine hours of almost constant exercise. 
 After this I think you will not take the trouble to 
 enquire after my health j it must be tolerably good. 
 I intended writing a very short letter, but recollect- 
 ing you would perhaps like some news from Snow- 
 don, I have been led on till I fear your patience is 
 exhausted, though I have suppressed at least half of 
 what I wish to say.'* 
 
 Miss H — had sent the preceding letter to our 
 mutual friend Mrs. De Luc; and Miss S — heard 
 that it had been mentioned with approbation by aa 
 illustrious lady, to whom Mrs. De Luc had read it. 
 This circumstance will explain the next letter.
 
 [ TO ] 
 
 *^ Shirley, March 25, 1790. 
 
 '^Unworthy as you are of a line from my 
 pen, I should be very glad of a few from your's, and 
 therefore must condescend to ask for them ; trustijig 
 to the insipidity of all I have to say, that my letter 
 will not be put in the trumpet of fame, and blown 
 to the four quarters of the world ; for ill as you use 
 your friends, I believe you have still sufficient re- 
 gard for a certain M — H — , not to publish that she 
 is the most treacherous of human beings; and that 
 she as much deserves to be taken up for treason as 
 any of his Majesty's disloyal subjecls. Now having 
 vented my anger, I have nothing more to say, but 
 that I should be very glad to hear from you. 
 
 " I have got— I will not tell you what; a little, 
 a very little book* always in my pocket. Mr. C— 
 has given it me. It is two books bound in one, and 
 contains a vast deal of wisdom ; but you are a blab, 
 and shall know no more. 
 
 " If you want to consult the Syriac translation of 
 the New Testament upon any particular passage, let 
 me know. Mr. C — has a very fine one, printed 
 .in Hebrew characters, and the language is so very 
 
 * Sententiae Rabbinorum.
 
 [ 71 ] 
 
 like the Hebrew, and where it differs from that, so 
 like the Arabic, that I can read it very well." 
 
 " May 7, 1799. 
 ** I suppose you conclude that I am ' afraid of 
 being tired with your answers^' but philosophers 
 sometimes draw false conclusions, and this is one of 
 them. I cannot enter into all the reasons for not 
 writing sooner. It is enough that here I am, — while 
 Mercury is vainly trying to get the better of Apollo, 
 —here I am writing to you, instead of watching their 
 confli£l. It is true I have no very great merit in 
 my forbearance, because I cannot see through the 
 veil with which they have chosen to conceal them- 
 selves J therefore be not too vain in fancying I pre- 
 fer your company to theirs. I imagine you are at 
 this moment visiting your neighbour, Dr.*Herschell, 
 and I desire you will communicate to me in this 
 nether world all the information you colleft in your 
 no6lurnal, as well as diurnal, peregrinations to the 
 heavens. I shall envy, — no I will not say envy 
 you, but I should like to go with you, as I should 
 have liked to have had you with me in some of my 
 late amusements, such as seeing the British Mu-
 
 [ 72 ] 
 
 scum, pictures and statues without end, and some 
 very curious pieces of mechanism, 
 
 *' I have just received an invitation to go and look 
 at the Gods through a good telescope. — All in vain! 
 I fancy we have been humbugged. I have seen the 
 sun as flat as a trencher, but not a bit of Mercury. 
 Do tell me, if it ought to be seen to-day; and if it 
 ought, what is the matter with our eyes. 
 
 '* In town I have been reading two volumes of 
 Sully's Memoirs, with which I am delighted, and 
 which I mean to finish the next time I can meet 
 with it. Since I came back, I have been reading 
 Cicero's letters to Atticus. I cannot say that 1 un- 
 derstand every part of them, on account of many 
 allusions to circumstances of the times, but with 
 many parts 1 am much pleased." 
 
 In the summer of the year 1799^ Mrs. S — and 
 all her family removed to Ireland, where Captain 
 S — 's regiment was still quartered. During tht;ir 
 residence in that hospitable country, they received 
 <nuch kind attention, which they always mention 
 with, the warmest expressions of gratitude. Thq 
 following elegant poem, which was addressed to
 
 [ 73 ] 
 
 Mrs. S — , when the family left Ballitore in 1800^ to 
 reside at Patterdale, will shew the impression their 
 charaAers and condu£l had made on the amiable 
 and ingenious writer. 
 
 Soft o'er the vale of Ballitore 
 
 The gale of peace was wont to blow; 
 
 Till discord rais'd her dii eful iiorn, 
 
 And fiU'd the shades with sounds of woe. 
 
 The blood-stain'd earth, the warlike bands, 
 Our trembling natives saw with dread ; 
 
 Dejedted labour left her toil, 
 
 And summer's blithe enjoyments fled. 
 
 But see, th' avenging sword is sheath'd. 
 And mercy's voice is heard at last. — 
 
 How sweet beside the winter's fire, 
 To ponder on the perils past! 
 
 Ah! think not yet your trials o'er; 
 
 From yonder mountain's hollow side 
 The fierce Banditti issue forth. 
 
 When darkness spreads her curtain wide. 
 
 With murd'rous arms and haggard eyes, 
 
 The social joys away they fight ; 
 Sad expe<ftation clouds the day. 
 
 And sleep forsakes the fearful night.
 
 C 74 J 
 
 Now martial troops prote<5t the vale, 
 At distance prowl the ruffian band. — 
 
 Oh, Confidence! thou dearer guard, 
 Why hast thou left this luckless land? 
 
 We dioop and mourn o'er many a joy, 
 O'er many a friend to dust consigned ;— 
 
 But ev'ry comfort is not fled, — 
 Behold another friend we find. 
 
 Lo, Juliet comes to grace the plain, 
 
 And friendship claims the precious prize; 
 
 She grants the claim, nor does her heart 
 The children of the vale despise. 
 
 Though polish'd life, with every charm, 
 To her its brilliant scenes display'd ; 
 
 Though formed to ornament a court. 
 She deigns to dignify the shade. 
 
 But shades more worthy of the guest 
 From us tliis precious prize require; 
 
 Guiltless of blood, with quiet blest. 
 
 Where truth's own bard attunes his lyre.* 
 
 Where Clarkson for the helpless pleads, 
 Where nature's charms majestic rise; 
 
 And broad Ulswater's beauteous lake 
 
 Gives back the mountains, woods, and skies. 
 
 * Thomas Wilkinson.
 
 [ 75 J 
 
 There, Juliet, may thy lovely maids 
 Their pencil's wond'ious art employ; 
 
 While each acquirement gives the pow'r 
 To increase their tender parent's joy. 
 
 Unknown to dissipated minds 
 
 The joys their gentle bosoms know ; 
 
 *Tis theirs to turn the classic page, 
 'Tis theirs to melt at others' woe. 
 
 And there, releas'd from war's alarms, 
 May thy lov'd lord delighted rove; 
 
 And lay the radiant scarf aside. 
 
 Dear pledge of Juliet's anxious love ! 
 
 Like the bright dames of ancient days. 
 She fram'd the web of crimson stain; 
 
 To grace her hero's form, or bear 
 Her hero wounded from the plain. 
 
 And still dispensing kindness round. 
 The happy household shall unitej 
 
 While from amid surrounding bow'rs 
 Their virtues beam with native light. 
 
 And in their joys we still shall joy. 
 While fancy views their dear retreat; 
 
 Though Juliet's eye, and Juliet's amile. 
 No more our gladden'd sight ahall meet.
 
 r 76 ] 
 
 What though the tender tear shall start. 
 
 And soft regret the sigh shall send ; 
 Yet shall our conscious hearts exult 
 
 In the rich gift of such a friend!* 
 
 I will here Insert some produ^lions, of which I 
 cannot exa6lly ascertain the date, but which were 
 certainly written before the removal to Ireland. The 
 imitation of Ossian was probably written at a much 
 earlier period; as her partiality for the Highland 
 Bard was not quite so great after she became ac- 
 qtiainted with the learned languages as it had been 
 in her childhood; though she never believed that 
 the work was entirely modern, and was very desi- 
 rous to read the Poems published by Dr. Smith in 
 the original language, but the want of a grammar 
 prevented her making much progress. When she 
 was in Ireland, she endeavoured to colle«Sl traditional 
 accounts of the Heroes of Morven and Erin, and 
 always mentioned with pleasure any circumstances 
 whicn appeared to prove the antiquity of the poems* 
 
 * The author of these lines, a Quaker, is now publishing 
 by subscription, <* Poems, by Mary Leadbeater, (late 
 Shackicton,) of Ballitore, including a translation of Maffoeus's 
 13th ^neid."
 
 [ 77 1 
 
 Imitation of Ossian, 
 
 " It is the voice of woe," I cried, as our bark 
 was tossing on the foaming wave; " it is the voice 
 of woe, O Finan ; I hear it at times in the blast ; it 
 shrieks from yonder rock. Now the storm is some- 
 what abated, let us take our oars, and try to reach 
 the shore. Perhaps there is some one, more wretch- 
 ed than we, to whom we may bring comfort j and 
 will not that be comfort to ourselves, son ofDeroe;?'* 
 ^ We can bring no comfort there, O Luno,' an- 
 swered Finan, ' 'tis the land of departed spirits. I 
 see the dim forms of our fathers, sailing in their 
 grey robes of mist across the mountains. They 
 beckon us to approach, they shriek our welcome, 
 for full well they know the ocean soon will bear us 
 to that land of darkness ; we shall never more be- 
 hold our lov'd, our lonely Kilda. Our wives look 
 cut from the rocks, the fair Malvina, and the raven- 
 hair'd Edilda; they think they see a distant sail, joy 
 sparkles in their eyes; it was but a passing cloud. 
 They look silent and mournful on each other, they 
 slowly return to their children. O Luno, let us 
 not rashly urge our fate; it is rapture to think yet a 
 moment on Kilda." ' Dots Finan fear to die?' I
 
 [ 78 ] 
 
 said; ' Flnnn, the bravest among heroes; he who 
 was first to chmb the rock, and seek the sea-fowl's 
 nest; he who was foremost in the fight; does he 
 weep and tremble, when summoned to the hall of 
 his fathers? When the valiant Derog advances to 
 welcome his champion, shall he meet the groveling 
 soul of a little man ?' Finan spoke not, he raised 
 his oar; I took up mine, we rowed till we reached 
 the shore. The voice of mourning had ceased; there 
 was no sound from the cave of the rock. We wan- 
 dered on the beach to seek the habitations of men. 
 In the cave of the rock sate a woman, beautiful as 
 the dawn of the morning to the benighted traveller, 
 but her form \va« wasted with sorrow; she was like 
 the young rose of the mountain which the deer has 
 torn up by the roots; it is still lovely, but its strength 
 has failed. Her head was leaning on her hand, she 
 saw not our approach. On her knees lay a young 
 child, at her feet a youth like the sons of heroes. 
 We gazed a moment in silence; at length I spake. 
 * Daughter of sorrow, tell thy grief; we too have 
 known misfortune, and learnt to pity the distressed.* 
 She raised her head, she gazed with wild surprize. 
 " Sons of the Ocean," she replied, *' I have no 
 sorrow nozi;. My child is dead, and I shall follow
 
 [ 79 3 
 
 him. Ere the dark dews of evening fall, I shall 
 meet thee, my child, in the airy hall of my fathers." 
 Her head sunk again on her hand in silence. ' Yet 
 tell us, lovely mourner,' I said, ' tell us, what land 
 is this? for we come from far, tossed by the tempest 
 from the lonely Kilda.' ** Strangers," she replied, 
 " have ye never heard of Rona? Rona, whose fam^ 
 spread wide as the light of day. Her sons were 
 generous and brave, her fields were fruitful in com, 
 her hills were covered with sheep. Then was the 
 stranger welcome to the feast. Five families dwelt 
 on our plains; their chief was my father, the valiant 
 Cormac, whose presence was like sun-shhie to his 
 guests. Oft have I heard the voice of joy resound 
 in his hall, and seen the beam of gratitude in the 
 eye of the ship-wrecked mariner. But now famine 
 has wasted our island, and there is nothing left to 
 give the weary traveller." ' Surely,' I cried, ' the 
 hand of the liberal should ever be filled with plenty; 
 happiness should dwell in his habitation, and his 
 children should never taste of sorrow. Or if the tear 
 hang on their cheek for a moment, the hand of pity 
 should be near to wipe it away, and to restore the 
 smile of gladness. Then why is the daughter of 
 Cormac left desolate? Why does the child of the
 
 [ 80 ] 
 
 generous suffer want?' '' Because she chose riches 
 rather than virtue," replied the lovely mourner; 
 " yet has she not been unpitied^ but that pity, like 
 yon coloured bow which makes the dark cloud seem 
 still darker, made her folly more apparent, and tore 
 her heart with anguish. Oh! son of other lands, I 
 will tell thee my sad tale, though the remembrance 
 be painful to my soul. Then wilt thou see that the 
 daughter of Cormac has notsuffered unjustly. — Two 
 youths sought the hand of Evirallin, only dauo-hter 
 of the generous Cormac, Dermod was rich, for his 
 house was well stored with corn, three cows gave 
 him their milk, and twenty sheep grazed for him on 
 the mountain. The store of Mordred was small, 
 yet was he richer than Dermod, for he had a noble 
 soul. But I chose Dermod with his flocks and herds; 
 for I said, the wife of Dermod never can know want; 
 pleasure will always attend her call, she has only to 
 wish, and be satisfied. 'Twas when the eve was 
 lengthened out almost to meet the dawn, and the 
 sun bct far to the north, that I became the spouse of 
 
 Dermod. The soul of Mordred was sad. The 
 
 crop which then looked green, was blasted ere the 
 harvest; it gave us not three months food. In the 
 spring the sea-weed failed on the coast, the cattle
 
 C 81 ] 
 
 illed of hunger. Theri was Dermod equalled with 
 the poorest. Our neighbours died around us. We 
 divided the last scanty meal; then wandered different 
 ways to seek for herbs and roots, or rather, not to 
 see each other die. As I mused on the top of a 
 rock, Mordred came up with a little cake. ' Eat/ 
 he cried, ' Evirallinj preserve thy life and that of 
 thy child. While yet there was corn, I was sparing; 
 I have still enough for many days. Perhaps ere 
 that is gone, some friendly bark may bring us aid.'* 
 The tear of gratitude was on my cheek, but I could 
 not thank the generous Mordred. Scarce had I 
 tasted the food, when Dermod came with haste; he 
 tore the cake from my hand, ere I could give- him 
 half, and eagerly devoured it. Mordred, seized with 
 rage, struck him to the ground, and he fell headlong 
 from the rock; the dark wave received him, and he 
 rose no more. We both stood speechless for a 
 moment, then Mordred rushed forward to follow 
 him, but I seized his arm. '* O Mordred," I cried, 
 *' leave me not desolate. There is none left alive but 
 thee, and me, and this little babe. We all shall 
 perish soon, but let not me be the last. Leave me not 
 like the wounded sea-mew, whom her companions 
 have abandoned, to sit complaining oa the desert 
 c
 
 [ 82 ] 
 
 rock !" — The heart of Mordredwas moved; he walked 
 slow and silent away. Each day did he bring me 
 a little cake. When I begged him to eat, he would 
 not; he said, * I have eaten before.' This day he 
 came before the accustomed time, he brought this 
 little cake. ' Take it,* he cried, * Evirallin; it is the 
 last. I came sooner than usual, for T felt that I could 
 not live. I have never tasted food since the day that 
 I killed Dermod.' He sunk down at my feet. In 
 vain I tried to restore him ; the noble spirit fled. 
 Then did I pour out my grief j I mourned my own 
 hard fate, and I gave his praise to the winds. The 
 son of the rock repeated it, there was none else to 
 hear. But I remembered my child, which lay on 
 th« matted sea- weed. I returned — it was dead ! 
 Then were my cares at an end; I sat down to wait 
 for death, which will, ere long, relieve me. Yet, 
 stranger, ere I go, receive this little cake ; 'tis all the 
 wretched Evirallin has to give. I could not eat it; 
 'twere like eating the flesh of Mordred !" — She 
 ceased; she was faint ; two hours I supported her 
 head, Finan wept over Mordred. At length I felt 
 her hand; it was cold and lifeless. We made a 
 grave beneath the hanging rock. We laid the fair 
 Evirallin in the narrow house, and Mordred and the
 
 [ 83 ] 
 
 child beside her. We reared these grey stones at 
 their heads, to mark the spot to future wanderers of 
 the ocean. The last ray of the setting sun look'd 
 on the new-made ffrave !'* 
 
 I do not know when the following reflections 
 were written, but the idea was probably suggested 
 by the German poem quoted in a letter to Misj 
 H — , dated April 7, 1794. — Seepage 29. 
 
 '^ Reason and Revelation, the two lights vvhich 
 the Almighty has given us to dispel the darkness 
 of Ignorance, and guide us to the knowledge of truth, 
 may be aptly compared to the two hghts He has 
 placed to dispel the darkness of the natural world, 
 and lead us to an acquaintance with the visible 
 objeCls that surround us. 
 
 " As the sun is the grand instrument by which 
 light is dispensed to the whole earth, and so resplen- 
 dent that all other lights may be accounted dark- 
 ness in comparison; — so revelation is the instrument 
 by which knowledge is communicated, and so much 
 does it exceed all other evidence in strength, that it 
 alone deserves the name of knowledge, 
 « 2
 
 [ 34 ] 
 
 ** As the moon shines with lustre borrowed from 
 the sun, and witnesses his existence even in his 
 absence, by reflefting a light which she could not 
 have received but from him; — so reason shines with 
 the refle6led lustre of revelation, and witnesses its 
 truth, even where, at first sight, it seems never to 
 have existed, by presenting ideas which the mind 
 of man could not have formed, and which therefore 
 must have been originally received from revelation. 
 
 *' As the sun diffuses not only light, but vivifying 
 heat, and may properly be called the animating 
 principle of naturej — so revelation diffuses not merely 
 speculative knovt'ledge, but that which leads to ever- 
 lasting life, and may be said to re- animate the soul. 
 
 '' The moon, gives no heat ; neither will reason 
 ever lead us to life eternal. 
 
 *' The sun shines in vain for whatever is not ex- 
 posed to its light and heat ; and revelation has been 
 given in vain for those who will not receive its in- 
 fluences. 
 
 *^ As the moon is not annihilated by the presence 
 of the sun, but only lost in the superior splendour 
 of his beams; — so reason is not contradided by re- 
 velation, but lost in the superior blaze of evidence.
 
 [ 85 ] 
 
 <^ The sun is too daz2ling for our unassisted eyes 
 to behold; and revelation is too glorious for our 
 weak faculties fully to comprehend. 
 
 " The light of the moon is faint and dubious; an4 
 the light of reason is but an uncertain guide. 
 
 " The scriptures plainly point to the analogy be- 
 tween the natural and spiritual worlds, in number- 
 less instances; as, when the moon is called * the 
 faithful witness in heaven;' Christ is called ' the 
 sun of righteousness,' * the light of the world,* &c/* 
 
 SONG FROM AFAR. 
 Translated from a German Poem by Matthison^ 
 
 «• When in the last faint light of ev'ning 
 
 A smiling form glides softly by, 
 A gentle sigh its bosom heaving. 
 
 While thou in Oaken grove dost liej 
 It is the spirit of thy friend, 
 Which whispers — " All thy cai-es shall end." 
 
 " When in the mild moon's peaceful twilight 
 Foreboding thoughts and dreams arise, 
 And at the solemn hour of midnight 
 
 Paint fairy scenes before thine eyesj 
 The poplars give a rustling sound,— » 
 It is my spirit borers round-.
 
 C 86 J 
 
 *' Wh?n, deep in fields of ancient story, 
 Thou hang'st enraptur'd o'er the page 
 That gives and takes the meed of glory, — .. 
 Feel'st thou a breath that fans thy rage ? 
 And does the trembling torch burn pale?— r 
 My spirit drinks with thine the tale. 
 
 « HeaPst thou, when silver stars are shining, 
 
 A sound as Eol's harp divine. 
 Now the wild wind full chords combining. 
 
 Now softly raurm'ring — •" Ever thine !" 
 Then careless sleep, — to guard thy peace, 
 My watchful spirit ne'er shall cease.'* 
 
 Observations in North-Wales, probablr/ 
 written at Conway, 
 
 " Snowdon, Penman-Mawr, and indeed all 
 the mountains I have examined in Caernarvonshire, 
 are composed of Schistus, the laminae of which, 
 where they are found in a state of rest, appear ge- 
 nerally to rise towards the south-west. In some of 
 the rocks these laminae are intersefted at right angles 
 by veins of gypsum. The mountains are perishing 
 fast, owing to the position of the strata. In winter 
 the rain lodges in the interse6lions of the stone, and 
 by its expansive force in freezing blows off immense
 
 [ 87 ] 
 
 masses; so that the surface of many of the mount- 
 ains, particularly of Penman-Mawr, is nothing but a 
 confused heap of loose stones of all possible dimen- 
 sions. The peaks have disappeared, and are only 
 to be traced by rocks lying confusedly on the tops 
 of mountains, where they evidently must formerly 
 have stood ereft. Grand as this country is, it is but 
 the ruin of its former grandeur, I find no marine 
 produ«Slions amongst these mountains, and indeed 
 their rough and shaggy forms place them in the rank 
 of primary mountains. Neither have 1 found any 
 traces of volcanos. What at first sight might ap- 
 pear most like one, is the immense pit at the top of 
 Snowdon; but the stones are untouched by fire, 
 and the cavity seems to have been occasioned by 
 water in the heart of the mountain undermining its 
 centre; while the peaks, more perfect than any I 
 have seen, though covered with ruins, stand round 
 staring at each other, and at the lake newly formed 
 at their feet, as if they wondered at being exposed 
 to the prying eye of day. Vegetation does not cease 
 at the top of Snowdon: several sorts of moss, and 
 lichen, a kind of short grass, the gallium pusil- 
 luvij and a little thyme, grow even to tbe summit.
 
 [ 88 ] 
 
 ** It is a custoni in this country that all those 
 who attend at a funeral give money to the clergy-," 
 man, proportionate to their rank and fortune, and 
 that of the deceased. 
 
 " On Whit-Monday, all the country people musfe 
 be up at three or folir o'clock in the morning to 
 keep holiday, on pain of being pulled out of bed and 
 put in the stocks by their companions. 
 
 " On Christmas-Day, prayers are read in the 
 Churches at four in the morning, and six in the 
 evening. The church is very handsomely illumi- 
 nated; and the people eat gingerbread, drink, and 
 behave very riotously, even during the service. 
 
 ** What is the meaning of these customs ?'* 
 
 In her letters to Dr. R — ,* Mrs. S — alludes to 
 some reflexions on the applause of the world, which 
 were probably written at a earlier period of Miss 
 S — 's life. *' I have known some very good people 
 maintain in theory, and almost all in practice, that 
 we ou2;ht to endeavour to gain the good opinion of 
 pthers. It strikes me so far otherwise, that I should, 
 
 * 8ee Appendix^
 
 [ 89 ] 
 
 think it wrong to stir my finger on purpose to gain 
 the good opinion of the whole world. Not that I 
 despise it; I consider the esteem of the wise and 
 good as a treasure which I should be glad to obtain j 
 but to obtain by being really worthy of it, not by 
 any little fraudulent arts exercised on purpose to 
 catch it. To be better thought of than I deserve^ is 
 always a reproach; but the consciousness of having 
 gained that high opinion by appearing in any respe£l 
 better than I really am, would be to iiie as insup- 
 portable as that of having forged a bank-note. In 
 either case I should have made something pass for 
 more than it was worth; i should cxpe6l the fraud 
 to be sometime or other discovered; and if not, I 
 could not enjoy what I had no right to possess., 
 Perhaps there is nothing more difficult to guard 
 against than the desire of being admired, but I am 
 convinced that it ought never to be the motive for 
 the most trifling adion. We should do right, be- 
 cause it is the will of God; if the good opinion of 
 pthers follow pur good condu6l, we should receive 
 it thankfully, as a valuable part of our reward; if not| 
 
 we should be content without it." These senti- 
 
 jnents are certainly highly chara6leristic of the 
 \vriter, for no human being, as Mrs, S— observes^,
 
 [ 90 ] 
 
 ever seemed to seek the applause of the world so 
 little as she did. " The approbation of God and 
 her own conscience were the only rewards she ever 
 sought." Let me, however, guard against her 
 meaning being misunderstood, by observing, that 
 wishing to gain the applause of others is very differ- 
 ent from wishing to please them. In the one case 
 we a6l from selfish motives, in the other they may 
 be purely benevolent. To give pleasure to others by 
 expressions of kindness and affc6lion, as well as to 
 set them a good example, forms a part of that law 
 of kindness which is the distinguishing feature of the 
 Christian religion; but our motive for every a£lion 
 should be duty to God, and the desire of pleasing 
 Him; the applause of our fellow- creatures may be 
 the consequence of our condu6l, and when it is so, 
 it may be received with gratitude and pleasure; but 
 our conduA should be precisely the same in every 
 instance, whether this reward is likely to be ob- 
 tained bv it or not. The Christian should aft on 
 higher motives, and " through evil report and good 
 report," he should always strive to please God. 
 
 At Ballitore, where the family spent nine months. 
 Miss S — had access to a very curious colleftion of 
 books, thiefly Greek and Latin, and I wish to give
 
 [ 91 ] 
 
 some idea of the use she made of them. A bundle 
 of papers found since her death is thus entitled: 
 *' Fasciculus Planiarum rariorum discerpta apud 
 Ballitore, vere 1800. Alia ob pulchritudinem, alia 
 ob odorenij alia ob curiositatem."* In each paper 
 is the name of an author and some extratls in the 
 original languages ; some short, but others of con- 
 siderable length. I am informed that many of the 
 Greek extrafts are taken from a volume containing 
 fragments of the minor poets. Others are much 
 longer quotations, from Epi<5letus, Hesiod, and the 
 Sybilline Oracles. The Latin authors are, — Cicero- 
 nis specimen ; Terentius distillatus; Grotius de 
 Veritate; Baconis Sermones Fideles j and Bacon de 
 Augmentis Scientiarum. In English, there is 
 Josephus; on which are notes which refer to the 
 whole of his works, both the Antiquities and the 
 Wars of the Jews, and it is evident that Miss S — 
 had studied them with attention. Asa proof of the 
 indefatigable application with which she pursued her 
 studies, I will take this opportunity of mentioning 
 sonie of the papers found after her death : 
 
 * " A colleftion of curious Plants, gathered at Ballitore in 
 1800. Some for their beauty, some for their sweetness, 
 «ome for their rarity."
 
 [ 92 ] 
 
 A complete Analysis of Homer's Odyfley, 
 
 Extratfts from Quintus Curtius. 
 
 Extrads from Maurice's History of Indostan, 
 
 Extra<5ls from Bnice's Travels. 
 
 Thirteen folio pages, closely written, containing near a 
 
 thousand words, written in Hebrew and Persic, to 
 
 shew the resemblances between those languages. 
 A great number of Greek words with their signification. 
 A collection of Welsh words. 
 A colledion of words from Africa, — Mandingo, Foulah, 
 
 Zangay, &c. 
 Explanation of many of the proper names in Scripture. 
 A collcflion of words from the Chinese. 
 Explanation of the names of many stars, with their titles 
 
 in Arabic ; and other papers in that language. 
 Extra(5ts from Bartholinus, in the Icclandish language. 
 An abstrad of the contents of the Edda, &c. &c. 
 
 To account for the trouble which Miss S — took 
 in colkding so many words in different languages, 
 and making so many extracts from books, it must 
 be recolle6led that she was often without a home, 
 and deprived of the assistance of diilionaries^ and 
 that the books from which she derived so much 
 pleasure and improvement were not her own, and 
 perhaps for a short time only accessible to her. 
 
 After Mrs. S— returned from Ireland, she resi- 
 ded during some months at Patterdale, by the Lake
 
 [ 93 ] 
 
 of Ulswater, from whence the following little Poem, 
 written by Miss S — , was sent by her and her sister, 
 with a very elegant Irish Poplin, to a friend, whose 
 services, though not her affe£lion, they always greatly 
 over-rated. 
 
 « Patter Jaky Dec. 8, 180Q. 
 
 " Were India's choicest treasures ours, 
 And did we give them all to thee; 
 Yet could not that be call'd a gift, 
 Which would not set the debtors free, 
 
 " For more than worlds to thee we owe, 
 Who still hast prov'd our kindest friend; 
 Then add one favour to the past, 
 To take the trifle we can send. 
 
 *• To purchase pleasures for ourselves 
 
 Thy bounteous hand a store supply'd; 
 The little part we thus employ 
 
 Has bought us more than all beside." 
 
 E. S. and C, S." 
 
 From Patterdale, Elizabeth writes thus to Miss 
 H— . 
 
 ^' March 22, 1801. 
 
 " You have perhaps heard of the little farm pur- 
 chased, and the house hired at C ■ , where we
 
 C 04 ] 
 
 are to be planted in May. In the mean time we 
 vegetate in a very beautiful country; but this is not 
 the season for enjoying it, and other enjoyments we 
 certainly have none ; but we look forward to the 
 land of promise, and flatter ourselves all will be 
 better in the next house. My Father is still in 
 
 Ireland.* Do you remember, Werter says every 
 
 day he lives amongst the country people he is more 
 delighted wiih Homer, because he finds his account 
 correspond so exactly with nature? I find it the 
 same here. Our neighbours are very little advanced 
 beyond the stale of civilization described by him, 
 and their manners agree surprisingly. I could give 
 you many instances of this, and shew you several 
 Nestors, if I had the happiness of seeing you here. 
 I cannot indeed boast of having met with a Hc£tor. 
 What is still more astonishing is, that the belief in 
 ghosts and witches is still in full force. We have 
 heard several serious and very recent stories of ghosts 
 that have been seen and laid in the neighbourhood ; 
 and there is an old Conjuror living close by, who is 
 always applied to, and who exerts his power when 
 
 * Mr. S — went into the army in the year 1794-, soon 
 after the misfortune which deprived him of Piercefield, and 
 he spent several years in Ireland with bis regiment.
 
 [ 95 ] 
 
 the butter will not come, or when any thing is lost ) 
 besides many others of the same trade, in whose 
 incantations the poor people believe at least as firmly 
 as they do in the Bible. When I come to witchcraft, 
 you will think it is time for me to leave off. I obey, 
 intreating you to be assured of my most sincere 
 affeaion.** 
 
 The circumstance which gave occasion to the 
 following reflections, happened exactly as it is here 
 described. 
 
 « PatUrdale, Feb, 1801. 
 
 ** Alone on the pathless steep I wander'd, 
 I sought the foaming waterfall ; 
 And high o'er the torrent's brink I clamber'd. 
 Which loud and dreadful roar'd beneath. 
 
 ** At length I came where a winter's streamlet 
 Had torn the surface from the earth; 
 Its bed was fiU'd with dty shelving gravel 
 Which slid beneath ray hands and feet. 
 
 ** The pebbles roll'd rattling down the steep slope, 
 Then dash'd into the dark abyss. 
 I foUow'd — there was nought to save ine» 
 Nor bush, nor rock, oor grass, nor i&09«.
 
 [ 96 ] 
 
 Then did I tranquilly my life resign; 
 * If 'tis the will of God that here 
 
 ♦ I perish, may that will be done!' but sudden 
 
 Across my mind th' idea flash'd — 
 
 • 'Twas not by his command I hither came ; 
 » 'Tis I, who wickedly have thrown away 
 
 * That life, which He for nobler ends had giv'n.* 
 Then, with a deep repentance for my fault. 
 And firm reliance on his mighty pow'r, 
 
 I pray'd to Him who is, who fills all space, 
 
 * O Loud, deliver me! I know Thou canst!' 
 Instant I rais'd my eyes, I know not why, 
 And saw my Sister stand a few yards off; 
 
 She secm'd to watch me, but she could not help* 
 Then, as the busy brain oft sees in sleep, 
 I thought she saw me slip into the stream, 
 And dash rebounding on from rock to lock. 
 Swiftly she ran all down the mountain side 
 To meet below my mangled lifeless limbs. 
 And tattcr'd garments. — Life then had value> 
 It was worth a stmggle, to spare her soul 
 That agony. — I pass'd, I know not how. 
 The danger; then look'd up — she was not there. 
 Nor had been ! 'Twas perhaps a vision sent 
 To save me from destradion. Shall I then 
 Say that Go» does not heed the fate of mortalg. 
 When not a sparrow falls witliout his will, 
 And when He thus has sav'd a worm like me ?
 
 [ 97 ] 
 
 So when I totter on the brink of sin, 
 
 May the same mercy save me from the gulph!" 
 
 Oh some remarkably sweet tones issuing from 
 e wood on the fire, during a very severe frost. 
 
 the 
 
 " Patterdaky January 1801. 
 
 « The storm is past; the raging wind no more. 
 Between the mountains rushing, sweeps the vale. 
 Dashing the billows of the troubled lake 
 High into air; — the snowy fleece lies thick j 
 From ev'ry bough, from ev'ry jutting rock 
 The crystals hang; — the torrent's roar hasceasM,— « 
 As if that voice which call'd creation forth 
 Had said, ' Be still !' All nature stands aghast. 
 Suspended by the viewless power of cold. 
 
 " Heap high the fire with wood, and let the blaze 
 With mimic sunshine gild our gloomy room. 
 The rising flame now spreads a cheerful ray; 
 We hover round, rejoicing in the heat; 
 The stifFen'd limbs relax, the heart dilates. 
 Hark to that sound ! Amid the burning pile 
 A voice, as of a silver trumpet, speaks. 
 
 * Children of Taste ! Nature's enthusiasts! 
 Ye, who, with daring pride, attempt to paint 
 These awful scenes; is this an offering fit 
 To great Ulswater's Genius? Is it thus 
 Ye adore the pidluresque, the beautiful? 
 11
 
 C 98 ] 
 
 Is this your homage to the dread sublime ? 
 
 Oft as ye stray where lofty Stybrow tow'rs, 
 
 Or Glencoin opes her ramparts to the lake, 
 
 Ve view the roots of trees that once have been,— 
 
 The hypocritic tear in every eye 
 
 Stands trembling, and ye almost curse the man 
 
 VVho laid their leafy honours low; — perhaps 
 
 Some sage refledllon follows, on the fiite 
 
 Of greatness timibled from its airy height,— 
 
 Of youth and beauty lopp'd in early bloom,— 
 
 Or else on avarice, that fiend who turns 
 
 The woods to gold, the heart to steel. — Then home 
 
 Ye hie, aad feed the fire with those lov'd trees 
 
 Whose fall ye have deplor'd. For this, be sure 
 
 Our sister Dryads ne'er shall spread their arms 
 
 To screen ye from the summer's noon-tide ray ; 
 
 'But e'er the sun ascends his fiery car, 
 
 Banish'd from these sequester'd glades, far off 
 
 To scorching plains and barren mountains go. 
 
 Where not a bough shall wave to fan the breeze, 
 
 Nor rill shall murmur coolness as it flows. 
 
 Then learn how vain th' excuse—" I did no wrong; 
 
 I only shar'd the gain of him who did.'* 
 
 I will here insert refle£iIons on various subjects 
 found amongst Miss S — 's papers, most of which, I 
 believe, were written after her return from Ireland*
 
 [ 90 i 
 
 " Why are the writings of the ancientg, generally 
 speaking, superior to those of the moderns? Because 
 paper was scarce. Of course they would think 
 deeply, and consider their subjeft on every side, 
 before they would spoil their parchment by writing 
 what on reflexion might appear not worth preserving. 
 The same cause, added to the labour of transcribing, 
 would prevent copies being multiplied, except of 
 what was really valuable. Thus what has come 
 down to our time, is only the cream of the writing^ 
 of the ancients, skimmed off by the judgment of their 
 immediate Successors, and cannot fairly be com- 
 pared with the general mass of modern literature.*' 
 
 " One of the most common subjedls of com- 
 plaint, among those who wish to shew their wisdom 
 by arraigning the whole economyof the universe,!^ 
 the inequality in the distribution of the goods'Ofthis 
 life. It is unfair, say they, that a fool should be 
 surrounded with dignities, honours, and affluence,' 
 while a wise man perhaps begs at his door. This 
 is a mistake, arising, as false opinions generally 
 do, from a too hasty view of the subject. Let the 
 wisdom of the one be weighed against the exterior 
 trappings of the other, and it will then appear that 
 
 K 2
 
 [ 100 ] 
 
 the wise man has by much the greater share of the 
 goods even of this life, wisdom being the most 
 vahiable gift that God can bestow. It may also 
 be proved that he is the happiest. He is of course 
 virtuous, for true wisdom is the motiier of virtue, 
 and his wisdom and virtue will teach him to be 
 contented with whatever lot the will of God may 
 ordain for him. This is more than the fool in the 
 midst of his wealth can ever attain to. He ii 
 always pursuing some new bauble, and despising all 
 he possesses in comparison with what he wishes to 
 obtain; and though he may riot in what he calls 
 pleasure for a time, he never enjoys that inward 
 satlsfafiion, that sunshine of the mind, which alone 
 deserves the name of happiness. If, then, honours, 
 distin£lions, and riches, were given exclusively to 
 the wise and good, what would become of the fool- 
 ish and the wicked ? They would lose their only 
 enjoyment, and become much more wretched than 
 it is possible for a wise man to be under any circum- 
 stances. At the same time the happiness of the 
 wise would not increase in the same proportion as 
 that of the fool diminished) because his mind being 
 fixed on higher obje6ls, he would but lightly regard 
 those advantages on which the other sets so high a
 
 [ 101 ] 
 
 value. The dog eats meat, and delights in all the 
 dainties of the table; but must the sheep therefore 
 complain that it has only grass? It has the food 
 best adapted to its nature. Were the dog turned 
 out to graze, he would starve.'* 
 
 '^ The hand of a friend imparts inestimable value 
 to the most trifling token of remembrance; but a 
 magnificent present from one unloved is like golden 
 fetters, which encumber and restrain not the less for 
 being made of costly materials." 
 
 ** Humility has been so much recommended, 
 and is indeed so truly a christian virtue, that some 
 people fancy they cannot be too humble. If they 
 speak of humility towards God, they are certainly 
 right ; we cannot, by the utmost exertion of our 
 faculties, measure the distance between Him and 
 us, nor prostrate ourselves too low before Him; but 
 with regard to our fellow- creatures, I think the case 
 is different. Though we ought by no means to 
 assume too much, a certain degree of respe6l to 
 ourselves is necessary to obtain a proportionate de- 
 gree from others. Too low an opinion of ourselves 
 will also prevent our und«rtaking what we are very
 
 [ 102 ] 
 
 able to accomplish, and thus prevent the fulfilment 
 of our duty J for it is our duty to exert the powers 
 given us, to the utmost, for good purposes j and how 
 shall we exert powers which we are too humble- 
 minded to suppose we possess? In this particular, 
 as in all others, we should constantly aim at disco- 
 vering the truth. Though our faculties, both in- 
 telle£lual and corporeal, be absolutely nothing com- 
 pared with the Divinity, yet when compared with 
 those of other mortals they rise to some relative 
 value, and it should be our study to ascertain that 
 value, in order that we may employ them to the best 
 advantage; always remembering that it is better to 
 fix it rather below than above the truth, 
 
 <» It is very surprising that praise should excite 
 vanity; for if what is said of us be true, it is no more 
 than we knew before, and cannot raise us in our 
 own esteem ; if it be false, it is surely a most humi- 
 liating refle(9:ion, that we are only admired because 
 "wc are not known, and that a closer inspeftion 
 would draw forth censure, instead of commendation. 
 Praise can hurt only those who have not formed a 
 decided opinion of themselves, and who are willing, 
 on the testimony of others, to rank themselves
 
 C 103 3 
 
 higher than their merits warrant, in the scale of 
 excellency." 
 
 - « Pleasure is arose near which there ever 
 grows the thorn of evil. It is wisdom's work so 
 carefully to cull the rose, as to avoid the thorn, and 
 let its rich perfume exhale to heaven, in grateful 
 adoration of Him who gave the rose to blow,'* 
 
 *' As the sun breaking forth in winter, so is joy 
 in the season of affli£lion. As a shower in the midst 
 of summer, so are the salutary drops of sorrow min- 
 gled in our cup of pleasure," 
 
 '^ A sum of happiness sufficient to supply our 
 reasonable desires for a long time is sometimes con- 
 densed into a little space, as light is concentrated 
 in the flash. Such moments are given to enable us 
 to guess at the joys of heaven." 
 
 ♦* In vain do we attempt to fix our thoughts on 
 heaven; the vanities of this world rise like a cloud 
 of dust before the eyes of the traveller, and obscure, 
 if not totally conceal, the beautiful and boundless 
 prospeft of the glorious country towards which we 
 are tending."
 
 [ 104 ] 
 
 " If it were the business of man to make a reli- 
 gion for himself, the Deist, the Theophilanthropisl, 
 the Stoic, or even the Epicurean, might be approved ; 
 but this is not the case. We are to believe what 
 God has taught us, and to do what He has com- 
 manded. All other systems are but the reveries of 
 mortals, and not religion." 
 
 ** The christian life may be compared to U mag- 
 nificent column, whose summit always points to 
 heaven. The innocent and therefore real pleasures 
 of this world are the ornaments on the pedestal; 
 very beautiful, and highly to be enjoyed when the 
 eye is near, but which should not too long or too 
 frequently detain us from that just distance, where 
 we can contemplate the whole column, and where 
 the ornaments on its base disappear." 
 
 *' The cause of all sin is a deficiency in our love 
 of God. If we really loved Him above all things, 
 we should not be too strongly attached to terrestrial 
 objefts, and should with pleasure relinquish them 
 all to please him. Unfortunately, while we continue 
 on earth, our minds are so much more strongly 
 affected by the perceptions of the senses than by
 
 [ 105 ] 
 
 abstra6l ideas, that it requires a continual exertion 
 to keep up even the remembrance of the invisible 
 world." 
 
 ** When I hear of a great and good chara6ler 
 falling into some heinous crinie, I cannot help cryinpj, 
 ' Lord, what am I, that I should be exempt? O 
 preserve me from temptation, or how shall I stand, 
 when so many, much my superiors, have fallen?' 
 
 *' Sublimity is something beyond the little 
 circle of our comprehension, and whatever within 
 that circle approaches the circumference, approaches 
 the sublime. The pleasure occasioned by the idea 
 of sublimity seems to me to consist in the exertion 
 of the mind, which, wl^n violent, overpowers weak 
 minds, as violent exercise does weak bodies, but 
 makes strong ones feel and rejoice in their own 
 energy. Mr. Burke certainly understood and felt 
 the sublime} but I think he would have defined it 
 better, if, instead of saying it is occasioned by ter- 
 ror, he had said, it is something incomprehensible 
 to the mind of man, something which it ^truggles 
 to take in, but cannot; which exerts all its powers, 
 yet baffles them. The instances he brings of it
 
 [ 106 ] 
 
 would in general agree much better with this idea 
 than with that of terrorj as, an extent of space of 
 which the eye sees not the bounds, a degree of dark- 
 ness which conceals thcmj every thing which oc- 
 casions indistinftness and difificulty. The same 
 perpendicular height gives a more sublime idea to a 
 person on the summit than at the base, because 
 the eye cannot so easily measure the height." 
 
 ** Imagination, like the petting sun, casts a 
 glowing lustre over the prospe^St, and lends to every 
 obje6l an enchanting brilliancy of colouring j but 
 when reason takes the place of imagination, and the 
 sun sinks behind the mountain, all fade alike into 
 Uie night of disappointment." 
 
 ** Study is to the mind what exercise is to the 
 body ; neither can be aclive and vigorous without 
 proper exertion. Therefore if the acquisition of 
 knowledge were not an end worthy to be gained, 
 still study would be valuable on its own account, 
 as tending to strengthen the mind: just as a walk 
 is beneficial to our health, though we have no par- 
 ticular objcA in view. And certainly, for that most 
 humiliating mental disorder, the wandering of the
 
 [ lor ] 
 
 thoughts, there is no remedy so efficacious as in- 
 tense study.'* 
 
 *' An hour well spent condemns a life. When 
 we refle£l on the sum of improvement and delight 
 gained in that single hour, how do the multitude of 
 hours already past rise up and say, what good has 
 marked us ? Would 'st thou know the true worth of 
 time, employ one hour.'* 
 
 " To read a great deal would be a sure preven- 
 tive of much writing, because almost every one 
 might find all. he has to say, already written." 
 
 <* A woman must have uncommon sweetness ot 
 disposition and manners to be forgiven for posses- 
 sing superior talents and acquirements," 
 
 "As by weighing a guinea in water, we prove 
 whether it be really gold, so by weighing our q,wn 
 faculties and attainments with those of the world in 
 general, we may ascertain their real worth. What- 
 ever bulk they have gained by the swelling of vanity, 
 so much weight will they lose on the trial. No one 
 can be convinced how difficult it is to know him-
 
 [ 108 J 
 
 self, without observing the erroneous opinions which 
 others entertain of themselves j but having seen how 
 far vanity will lead them, we must suspect our- 
 selves." 
 
 *^ Tt is not learning that is disliked in women, 
 but the ignorance and vanity which generally ac- 
 company it. A woman's learning is like the fine 
 eloihes of an upstart, who is anxious to exhibit to 
 all the world the riches so unexpe^lcdly acquired^ 
 The learning of a man, on the contrary, is like he- 
 reditary rank, which having grown up with him, 
 and being in a manner interwoven with his nature, 
 he is almost unconscious of possessing it. The 
 reason of this difference is the scarcity of the com- 
 modity amongst females, which makes every one 
 who possesses a little, fancy herself a prodigy. As 
 the sum total increases, vvc may reasonably hope 
 that each will become able to bear her share with a 
 better grace.'* 
 
 " Why do so many men return coxcombs from 
 their travels ? Because they set out fools. If a 
 iman take with him even a moderate share of com- 
 mon sense, and a desire of improvement, he will
 
 C 109 3 
 
 find travelling the best introdu£lion to an acquaint- 
 ance with himself, and of course the best corre<Slor 
 of vanity; for if we knew ourselves., of what could 
 anv of us be vain? Vanity is the fruit of ignorance, 
 which thrives most in subterranean places, where 
 the air of heaven, and the light of the sun, never 
 reach it." 
 
 "" Hope without foundation is an ignis fatuus; 
 and what foundation can we have for any hope, but 
 that of heaven?'* 
 
 ** Great a£lions are so often performed from 
 little motives of vanity, self-complacency, and the 
 like, that I am more apt to think highly of the per- 
 son whom I observe checking a reply to a petulant 
 speech, or even submitting to the judgment of 
 another in stirring the fire, than of one who gives 
 away thousands." 
 
 '^ To be good and disagreeable is high treason 
 against virtue." 
 
 " Our endeavours to reach perfe6lion are like 
 those of Sysiphus to roll the stone up the hill j we
 
 [ 110 ] 
 
 have a constant tendency downwards, which \vc 
 mast exert all our cflforts to countera6l.'* 
 
 *' A great genius can render clear and intelligible 
 any subjc<5t within the compass of human know- 
 ledge; therefore what is called a deep book, (too 
 deep to be understood,) we may generally conclude 
 to be the produce of a shallow understanding." 
 
 " We were placed in this world to learn to. be 
 happy; that is, so to regulate and employ our pas- 
 sions as to make them produ6live of happiness j if 
 we do not learn this lesson, but on the contrary, 
 make them productive of misery, by cultivating and 
 encouraging the malevolent, instead of the bene- 
 volent aflc6lions, heaven itself cannot make us 
 happy. For a being accustomed to indulge envy, 
 hatred, and malice, against superior excellence, 
 would be in a state of the most agonisizing torture if 
 placed in the midst of perfection, where every objeib 
 calculated to inspire love and admiration, veneration 
 and gratitude, in a well-disposed mind, would excite 
 the opposite painful emotions in his." 
 
 " A happy day is worth enjoying, it exercises the 
 soul for heaven, The heart that never tastes of
 
 [ 111 ] 
 
 pleasure, shuts up, grows stiff, and incapable of 
 enjoyment. How then shall it enter the realms of 
 bliss? A cold heart can receive no pleasure even 
 there. Happiness is the support of virtue; they 
 should always travel together, and they generally do 
 so; when the heart expands to receive the latter, her 
 companion enters of course. In some situations, if 
 I ever do right, it is mechanically, or in compliance 
 with the deductions of reason ; in others, it is from 
 an inward sentiment of goodness, from the love of 
 God, and admiration of the beauty of virtue. I 
 believe it is impossible to be wicked and happy at 
 the same time," 
 
 *' When we think of the various miseries of the 
 world, it seems as if we ought to mourn continually 
 for our fellow-creatures, and that it is only for want 
 of feeling that we indulge in joy for a single mo- 
 ment. But when we consider all these apparent 
 evils as dispensations of Providence, tending to 
 corre6l the corruption of our nature, and to fit us for 
 the enjoyment of eternal happiness, we can not 
 only look with calmness on the misfortunes of 
 others, but receive those appointed for ourselves 
 with gratitude,"
 
 [ 112 J 
 
 *' Happiness is a very common plant, a native 
 of every ?oiI; yet Is some skill re'iuired in gathering 
 it ; for many poisonous weeds look like it, and de- 
 ceive the unwary to their ruin." 
 
 *' Courage has been extolled as the first of 
 human virtues; again, it has been considered as the 
 xnercmechanicaleffetSi of blood and spirits. Whence 
 arise these opposite opinions? To answer this quest- 
 ion, we must trace fear to its origin, i. e. the cradle. 
 We are all naturally cowards, as wc arc gluttons. See. 
 The first passions of children are, a desire of food; 
 fear, when any thing approaches which they fancy 
 may hurt them; and anger, when their inclinations 
 are thwarted. These instincts are wisely implanted, 
 for the purpose of self-preservation, not only in the 
 human species, but in the whole animal creation. 
 Ey these we are and must be guided, till reason 
 gain sufficient strength to rule them. In some 
 this never happens, and tjioy are children all their 
 lives; or rather they degrade themselves to brutes, 
 by not using their reason for the purpose for which 
 it was given. Since, then, fear is natural, courage 
 doe? not consist in its absence, but in its proper 
 regulation by reason; to fear only when there is
 
 [ 113 ] 
 
 cau^e to fear. On this sub] eft there will be various 
 opinions. Some think any bodily pain or injury a 
 cause of fear, others dread the censure or ridicule of 
 the world, &c. It is the Christian alone, who, 
 havina: his treasure in heaven, can find no cause of 
 fear in this world, and who is therefore the only 
 hero. Others may possess degrees of courage suffi- 
 cient for outside shew, to impose upon the world, 
 to be admired, and to be talked of; but which 
 having no better foundation than vanity, emulation, 
 or shame, all originally the offspring of fear, will 
 shrink from even a small trial which no eye beholds, 
 because their natural timidity having been argued 
 down by only weak and partial reasons, will always 
 recur when those reasons fail. Such courag-e is not 
 a virtue, though still,- as being an exertion of reason, 
 upon whatever principles, it is more respe£lable than 
 cowardice. It is the foundation of religion alone, 
 which exalts courage to the highest virtue, and at 
 the same time makes it universal, as being an uni- 
 versal principle applicable to all circumstances.'* 
 
 In the year 1803^ Mr. Sotheby, the elegant transla- 
 tor of Oberon, expressed to me a wish that MissS— 's
 
 [ n4 1 
 
 uncommon talents shouUl be employed in something 
 which might interest the public ; particularly in 
 translations from the German. He could scarcely 
 credit what I said of the facility with which she 
 translated from that very difficult language ; and 
 taking down Gesncr's works, which was the only 
 German book in my possession, he turned to one 
 of the Idylls, and requested me to ask her to trans- 
 late it. I believe she had never read it, and I know 
 she had no dictionary ; but I told her that Mr. 
 Sotheby had commended the poem highly, and I 
 wished she would make me understand it. The 
 next morning she brought me the following. 
 
 ** A Picture of the Deluge, 
 
 '^ The marble towers were already deep buried 
 beneath the flood, and dark waves already rolled 
 over the mountain tops ; one lofty summit stood 
 alone above the waters. Its sides resounded with 
 the mingled cries of wretches who attempted to 
 ascend, and whom death followed on the dashing 
 wave. Here, a crag, rent from the mountain, fell 
 with its burthen of helpless mortals into the foara-
 
 [ H5 ] 
 
 ing flood ', there, the wild stream of a torrent hurried 
 down the sou, as he was dragging uj)>his dying fa« 
 therj or the despairing mother with the load of her 
 children. Only the highest summit now remained 
 ahove the deluge. 
 
 " Seminj a noble youth, to whom the most noble 
 of maidens had sworn eternal love, had saved his 
 beloved Semira on the summit. All else were dead. 
 They stood alone in the howling storm; the waves 
 dash'd over them. Above them growl'd the thun- 
 der, and beneath roar'd the furious ocean. Darkness 
 reign'd around, save when the lightning shew'd 
 the horrid scene. Each cloud's dark brow threat- 
 en'd vengeance, and each wave roU'd on a thousand 
 corses; it roll'd on with fury, seeking for more de- 
 struftion. — Semira press'd her beloved to her trem- 
 bling heart; tears ran with the rain-drops down her 
 faded cheeks. She spoke with a faltering voice. — 
 
 '' There is no more safety, O my beloved ! my 
 Semin ! Death surrounds us. O destrudlion ! O 
 misery! Death comes every moment nearer. Which 
 of those waves, oh, which will overwhelm us? Hold 
 me, hold me in thy trembling arms^ O my beloved I 
 Soon, soon shall I, shalt thou, be no more ; swaU 
 1 2
 
 [ n6 ] , 
 
 lowed up in the universal destruftion. Now, — O 
 God! yonder it rolls. How dreadful! It rolls yet 
 nearer, illumined by the lightning. Now, — O God! 
 our Judge!" she said, and sunk on Semin. His 
 trcmhling arm surrounded his fainting love. No 
 voice breathed from his quivering lips. He saw 
 destru£lion no longer ; he saw only the fainting 
 Semira leaning on his bosom, and felt more than 
 the chill of death. Now he kiss'd her pale cheek, 
 wet with the chilling rain ; he press'd her closer to 
 his breast, and said, * Semira, beloved Semira^ 
 wake! Oh, vet return to this scene of horror, that 
 thine eyes may look on mc once more j that thy 
 pale lips may once more tell me that thou lov'st me 
 even in death. Yet once more, ere the flood o'er- 
 whelm us both!' He said, and she awoke. She 
 look'd on him with an eye full of tenderness and 
 inexpressible sorrow,— then on the wide scene of de- 
 solation. '* O God; our Judge!" she cried, " is 
 there no prote(ftion, is there no pity for us? O how 
 the waves dash, how the thunder roars around us ! 
 What terrors announce the unpropiiiated judgment. 
 O God ! our years flowed on in innocence. Thou, 
 the most virtuous of youths! — Woe, woe is me- 
 They are all gone j they who adorn'd my life with
 
 [ H7 J 
 
 the flowers of joy are all gone! — And thou who 
 gavest me life — O agonising sight ! the wave tore 
 thee from my side. Yet once didst thou rise thy 
 head and thine arms; thou would'st have blest me, 
 and wert overwhelm'd. they are all gone — and 
 yet — O Semin, Semin -, beside thee the lonely deso- 
 lated world would be to me a Paradise. Our youthful 
 years flow'd on in innocence. Oh, is there no sal- 
 vation, no mercy ? Yet why does my afflitted heart 
 complain ? O God, forgive! We die. What is 
 the innocence of man in thy sight?" The youth 
 supported his beloved as she trembled in the storm, 
 and said, ^ Yes, my beloved, life is banish 'd from 
 the earthj the voice of the dying no more is heard 
 amidst the roaring of the ocean. O Semira, my 
 dearest Semira, the next moment will be our last ! 
 Yes, they are gone, the hopes of this life are all 
 gone ; every pleasing prospeft that we imagined iu 
 the enraptured hours of our love, is vanished. We 
 die; — but O let us not await the universal doom 
 like those who have no hope; and O my beloved, 
 what is the longest, the happiest life? A dew-drop 
 that hangs from the jutting rock, and before the 
 morning sun, falls into the sea. — Raise up thy 
 drooping spirit.— Beyond this life is peace and eter-
 
 C lis ] 
 
 nity. Let us not tremble now, as we pass over. 
 Embrace nic, and so let U5 await our destiny. Soon 
 my Semira, soon sball our souls rise above tbis de- 
 solation; full of feelings of inexpressible happiness 
 shall they arise. O God, hope fills my soul with 
 courage. Yes, Semira, let us lift up our hands to 
 God. Shall a mortal adjust his balance? He who 
 brealh'd into us the breath of life; He sends death 
 to the righteous, and to tlic unrighteous ; but welj 
 is it for him who hath walked in the path of virtue. 
 We pray not for life, O righteous Judgre ! Take us 
 from hence ; but oh, invigorate the hope, the sweet 
 hope of inexpressible happiness, which death shall 
 no more disturb. — Then roll, ye thunders, and rage, 
 thou ocean ; dash over us, ye waves! Praised be 
 the righteous Judge; praised! Let this be the last 
 thought of our soul in the dying body.' — Coiwage 
 and jov animated the face of Semira. She rais'd 
 her hands in the storm, and said, " Yes, I feci the 
 delightful, the glorious hope ! Praise the Lord, O 
 my tongue 3 weep tears of joy, my eyes, till death 
 shall close ye. A heaven fill'd with happiness awaits 
 us. Ye are all gone before, ye beloved! We come. 
 Soon, O soon we shall again behold you ! They 
 stand before his throne, the Righteous One's; He has
 
 [ H9 ] 
 
 gathered them together from his judgment. Roar, 
 ye thunders ; rage, destrucSlion; ye are hymns of 
 praise to his righteousness. Roll over us, ye waves. 
 See, my beloved! — Embrace me — yonder it comesj 
 death comes on yon dark wave. Embrace me, Se- 
 minj leave me not. O already the flood uplifts me 
 from the earth." — ' I embrace the! Semira,' said 
 the youth, ^ I embrace thee ! O death, thou art wel- 
 come. We are prepared. Praised be the Eternal 
 Just One!' — The next wave found them lock'd in 
 each other's arms: the succeeding found them notl" 
 
 Mr. Sotheby was extremely pleased with this 
 trantslation, and his encouragement and kind assist- 
 ance led me to engage my beloved friend in a work, 
 which employed much of her time and attention, 
 and in which she took particular pleasure; till her 
 last fatal illness put an end to her pursuits, and to 
 all our earthly hopes in regard to her. The work 
 to which I allude, is a Translation of Letters and 
 Memoirs relating to Mr. and Mrs. Klopstock. The 
 interest which was awakened by Mrs. Klopstock's 
 letters, lately published in the correspondence of 
 Mr. Richardson, led me to suppose thatauthentic in<=
 
 C I'^o ] 
 
 formation with regard to that amiable woman would 
 be well received by the public; and the kindness of 
 the venerable Dr. Mumsscn, of Altona, who had 
 been the intimate friend of Klopstock, supplied me 
 with many letters and other works in prose and 
 verse, which Miss S — translated, and which are 
 prepared for the press ; though some of the manu- 
 scripts with which I was favoured by Dr. Mum- 
 ssen, arrived too late. I will hereinsert some cxtraAs 
 from Miss S — 's letters, which were sent to me with 
 different parts of this little work, the materials for 
 which were received by me, and forwarded to her 
 at different times. 
 
 -, November 9, 1804. 
 
 ** My Mother has, I hope, told you, my dearest 
 friend, that Mr. Sotheby's book arrived the day be- 
 fore she left home, which was as soon as I could do 
 any good with it. My Mother and I were so com- 
 fortable together, that I did not attempt to do any 
 thing except translating the little Ode to Bodmar 
 one night after she was gone to bed. I shall now 
 have a clear week between her going and my Sister's 
 coming, and that will be sufficient to do all you
 
 [ 121 j 
 
 want. But I ought to tell you what I have got, 
 that you may explain your wishes more fully. ■ - 
 
 I shall go on with these 
 
 till my Sister's return, and then shall wait your 
 orders to send what you chuse. I cannot conclude 
 without thanking you most heartily for the employ- 
 ment. I am so delighted with Klopstock, that I 
 feel ver)' glad of an excuse to give up my whole 
 time and thoughts to him. As to the Di6tionary, I 
 am sorry to have troubled Mr. Sotheby, for I have 
 not yet found any use for it. The English often 
 runs so naturally in the same course with the Ger- 
 man, that I have nothing to do but to write it down,. 
 Perhaps you will be kind enough to mention any 
 thing you dislike ; then if it be Klopstock's fault, 
 you must be content; if mine, it shall be corretled 
 with thankfulness." 
 
 " November 23. 
 " That you may notsusped. me of arrogance in 
 saying that 1 made no use of the Dictionary, I must 
 tell you that the difficulty of Klopstock's Oaes (for 
 difficult manyof them certainly are) does not consist 
 in hard words, but in the wide range of ideas, and 
 the depth of thought, which he has expressed in
 
 [ 122 ] 
 
 very concise language; of course, often bordering on 
 6bscuritv, but such obscurity as no diftionary has 
 power to dissipate. On the contrary, in translating 
 the prose, I have several times had occasion to con- 
 sult it for names of things in common use, which 
 never occur in poetry, and it has not always aflbrdcd 
 the information I wanted. There are some words 
 for which I am still at a loss, which I send in Ger- 
 man, in hopes that Miss H — can explain them. If 
 you imagine me making rapid progress, you are to- 
 tally mistaken. Since my sisters and B— * came 
 home, my perfeft stillness is at an end ; and my 
 brains being of that kind which requires the aid of 
 outward composure, it is not without difficulty that 
 I can now translate the prose, and the poetry I da 
 not think of attempting. The present sheet is all I 
 have translated since their return, though I have still 
 some left of what I had done before. I fear it will 
 be so long before all our materials are colle6led, 
 that the subjetSl will be forgotten in the world. 
 Never, I intreat you, think of thanking me; but be 
 assured that if I can do any thing to amuse you, 
 whether it be of any further use, or not, the pleasure 
 of doing so is to me an ample reward." 
 * Third son of Mrs. S —
 
 [ 123 ] 
 
 *^ December 22. 
 " Last night arrived your parcel, — your little 
 parcel of great treasures. The letters between Klop- 
 stock and his wife are highly interesting to those 
 who know and love them as we doj and many of 
 the letters of their friends written after her death 
 
 will, I am sure, delight you. -■ 
 
 ■ • You put a dash under 
 
 'warm bed-chamber, as if you thought we could not 
 give you one ; it is therefore my duty to tell you 
 that it is the warmest and best thing we have; and 
 that if it were possible to transport you hither, we 
 should not despair of making you comfortable, even 
 in the depth of winter; nor of hearing you admire 
 our mountains every time the sun shone. In fa£l, 
 their present colouring is so rich, and the small ele- 
 vation of the sun above the horizon is so favourable 
 to the lights and shadows, that when a gleam does 
 dart across the valley, it is, in a painter's eye, more 
 beautiful than in summer. The mountains in the 
 back-ground are covered with snow, but we have 
 only a little sprinkling on the top of our highest 
 neighbour. I hope too, you would not here be so 
 t;)ften ' sick at heart' as you are at Bath, and al- 
 ways 7}iust be, till you learn, what you never will
 
 [ 024 ] 
 
 learn, to care for nobody but yourself. We ex- 
 pecled Miss H — would have some influence in 
 keeping you quiet, by making you happy at home ; 
 but it seems even her power is not sufficient. Give 
 my kind love to her. L — is at home for the holi- 
 days. He and IJ — are very grateful for your kind 
 remembrance. As to your own children, I need 
 not waste paper in telling you how much they love 
 you." 
 
 " March 22, 1803. 
 ** A small box will be dispatched to-morrow, con- 
 taining a translation of all the prose in Mr. Sotheby's 
 book, &c. I fear you will find some German still 
 sticking to the translation, which I have not been 
 able to rub off. — I have added some of my Sunday 
 work, for your private amusement. You are so well 
 acquainted with the suhjecl, and have the power of 
 consulting so many books, that you will probably 
 know I am nitc^iaken in many instancesj and you 
 will highly oblige me by telling me so. Where I 
 may be right, it is often no more than a lucky guess, 
 and guesses must sometimes prove erroneous. — At 
 the bottom of the box you will find a few transpa-
 
 [ 125 ] 
 
 rencles done- by K — and me for your shew-box.* 
 T— sends her duty. If she durst, I believe it 
 would her love.f 
 
 "April 16. 
 *^ Your gfat'itude to me, dearest friend, is like 
 T — 's duty to you, rejected because you owe none. 
 The employment has been very delightful to me. I 
 could not have got through the winter without some- 
 thing to engage my thoughts, to fix my attention ; 
 and I could hardly have found any thing that would 
 do this more agreeably than the Klopstocks : yet I 
 should have wanted a sufficient motive for spending 
 so much time on them, had not you supplied one in 
 the pleasure of doing any thing (or i/ou. You have 
 provided both the subje6l and the motive for a6lion; 
 and thus on this, as on all other occasions, I am highly 
 
 * At Patterdale and C , Miss S — and her slstei^ 
 
 found much employment for the pencil, and I am in possession 
 of a beautiful set of transparencies, from scenes in that country, 
 which prove how well they employed it. Elizabeth discover- 
 ed a method of clearing the lights with wax, instead of oil or 
 varnish, which I think answers perfedlly well. 
 
 •{■ The faithful servant mentioned by Mrs. S-—-: see Ap- 
 pendix.
 
 [ 12G ] 
 
 indebted to you. I have now sent all that was want- 
 ing of the little volume, except some of the letters 
 of their friends, which seemed to throw no parti- 
 cular light on the subje<5l, and are only interesting 
 as they shew how much the Klopstocks were be- 
 loved. If you find this packet more incorre£l than 
 the former, do not think that I am tired of the 
 work; I was only very much hurried to get all done 
 in time for my Mother's box. Mr. Satche's speech 
 was never touched till within the last two hours. 
 Of course I was obliged to send the foul copy un- 
 read; but it is the fa*ils only that you want, and those 
 you have got; no matter in what language, if you 
 can but read it. All you desired me to do, is, T think, 
 now sent. I do not wonder you are disappointed in 
 Kiopstock's prose: it seemed to me in general dull. 
 His wife, I think, writes with more ease. I thought 
 it was best to give you every thing, and leave you to 
 weed for yourself. I have accordingly been as 
 faithful as I could. You must reconcile yourself to 
 Fanny. I rather think that Klopstock was more in 
 love with her than even with your favourite Meta; at 
 least the odes which relate to her, appear to me to be 
 the finest. His second wife was a blessing sent by 
 heaven, to make him endure existence for the good
 
 [ 127 ] 
 
 of the human race. Do not blame him for having 
 been fortunate enough, at very different periods of 
 his Hfe, to meet with three such women. In truth, 
 he is so great a favourite of mine, that I would 
 gladly excuse him at any rate. 
 
 *^ I never read Peters, on Job, nor any thing about 
 the Hebrew language, except the book of Dr. Ken- 
 nicott's which you lent me, and Louth's Praele«3;ions, 
 Parkhurst has been my only guide, but I fancy he is 
 a very good one." 
 
 I afterwards received from Dr. Mumssenand Mrs. 
 Klopstock other letters and papers, which delayed our 
 intended publication. Some of these were translated 
 by Miss S — , but others did not arrive till she was 
 too ill to attend too them. 
 
 As a specimen of Miss S — 's translations from 
 the Hebrew Bible, I insert Jonah's prayer, and the 
 last chapter of Habbakkuk. I do not presume to 
 form any judgment with regard to these transla- 
 tions; but they were shewn to a gentleman who is 
 well acquainted with the language, and who was 
 requested to give his opinion of them. He said that 
 the author had certainly an extraordinary knowledge
 
 [ 12S ] 
 
 of Hebrew: that he thoimht him rather too free for 
 a bibhcal translator, but that hcphewed great ac- 
 quaintance with the language, as well a^ a refined 
 taste, and that many of his conjectures were emi- 
 nently happy. This opinion was formed entirely 
 
 from a critical examination of the work, without 
 any knowledge of the author; whose acquaintance 
 with the language would certainly have appeared 
 much more extraordinary, had this Gentleman 
 known that these translations, and many others from 
 the same sacred book, were the work of a Vounor 
 Lady who never received any instru6lion with regard 
 to the Hebrew language from any person whatever. 
 She had no idea of ever offering them to the public, 
 and it is now done principally to shew with what 
 attention she pursued this most interesting of all 
 studies, and how well she adhered to the resolution 
 she had formed, to let the Word of God be her 
 chief study, and all others subservient to it. She 
 translated some chapters in Genesis, the whole book 
 of Job, many of the Psalms, some parts of the 
 Prophets, &c. She spent some time with me in the 
 years 1802 and 1803, when she brought me her 
 translation of Job, and many observations on differ- 
 ent parts of the Old Testament. We had much
 
 [ 129 ] 
 
 conversation on such subjects, from which I always 
 derived information as well as delight. She had 
 shewn me her translation of the eleventh chapter of 
 Genesis, in the year 1797, when she was only twenty 
 years old j and as it differs considerably from that 
 in the English Bible, I requested a friend to shew 
 it to Mrs. Carter, who said that the idea was new 
 to her, but she thought the words might bear that 
 interpretation. I was afterwards informed that Sir 
 William Jones had given the same interpretation to 
 that chapter. I do not know whether it is men- 
 tioned in the works of that great man, from which 
 Miss S— • afterwards derived much information, and 
 of which she always spoke with enthusiastic admi- 
 ration ; but they were not then published. 
 
 «* JONAH'S PRAYER. 
 « c. ii. V. 2. 
 
 « I call on Jehovah from my prison, 
 And He will hear me; 
 From the womb of the grave I cry, 
 Thou hearest my voice. 
 
 K
 
 [ 130 ] 
 
 Thou has cast me into wide waters in the depth of the sea, 
 
 And the floods surround me ; 
 
 All thy dashing and thy rolling waves 
 
 Pass over me. 
 
 And I said I am expelled 
 
 From before thine eyes ; 
 
 that I might once more behold 
 Thy holy temple! 
 
 The waters on every side threaten my life, 
 
 The deep surrounds me ; 
 
 Sea-weed is the *binding of my head 
 
 1 am going down to the clefts of the mountains. 
 The earth has shut her bars 
 
 Beliind me for ever. 
 
 But tiiou wilt raise my soul from corruption, 
 
 Jehovah, my God! 
 
 In the fading away of my life, 
 
 I think upon Jehovah ; 
 
 And my prayer shall come unto Thee 
 
 In thy holy temple. 
 
 They who serve false gods 
 
 Forsake the fountain of mercy ; 
 
 But I with the voice of praise 
 
 Will sacrifice to Thee. 
 
 What I have vowed I will perform, 
 
 Salvation is Jehovah's!" 
 
 • The binding of the bead was a preparation for buriU.
 
 [ 131 ] 
 ^^HABAKKUK. 
 
 " The two first chapters of Habakkuk contain a 
 prophecy of the invasion of Judea by the Chaldeans, 
 and of the vengeance which God will take on them 
 for the evils they inflict on his people, whom He 
 promises He will not utterly forsake ; " for the earth 
 shall be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the 
 Lord, as the waters cover the sea;" referring to 
 the eleventh chapter of Isaiah, which contains a 
 clear prediction of the Messiah. The third chapter 
 is an ode, apparently intended to be sung by two 
 persons, or two companies. No I. representing 
 the Prophet foretelling what is to happen to the 
 Jews. No. H. some one recounting the great 
 works and deliverances already performed by God, 
 as reasons for trusting that He will again deliver his 
 people. In the conclusion both parts join in a 
 chorus of praise, 
 
 '^ The^r^^ division is a prediction of the coming 
 of Christ. It is answered by a description of 
 God's a6lual appearance on Mount Sinai. 
 
 '* The second tells of evils impending on some 
 neighbouring nations. Answered by an account of 
 the deluge, when the ark was saved upon the waves. 
 K 2
 
 [ 13- ] 
 
 " The thirdy a threat of vengeance on the ene- 
 mies of God. Answered by the judgments in- 
 Aisled on Egypt, when the Israelites were brought 
 out in safety. 
 
 '* TheybiirM refers immediately to the threatened 
 invasion by the Chaldeans. The answer is plain: 
 I will yet trust in the Lord, who will at length 
 deliver nie from my enemies. 
 
 *' The whole concludes with a chorus of praise." 
 
 «• A SONG IN PARTS,* 
 
 •' Br HABAKKUK THE PROPHET, 
 •< UPON JUDGMENTS, OR MAGNIFICENT WORKS. 
 I. 
 
 " Jehovah! I have heard thy report, 
 
 |I have seen, Jehovah! thy work. 
 
 In the midst of years Thou wilt cause him to live, 
 
 In the rrvidst of yvars Thoii wilt give knowledge. 
 
 In trembling Thou wilt cause to remember mercy. 
 
 * '• A Song in Parts:" may not J^^^i'^, of which the meaning 
 is, " ^livision," " coming between," &c. mean " a divided piece," 
 " a dfalogue?"
 
 C 133 3 
 
 II. 
 
 « The Almighty came from the south, 
 
 And the Holy One from Mount Paran. Selah. 
 
 His glory covered the heavens, 
 
 And his splendour filled the earth. 
 
 And the brightness was as the light; 
 
 Rays darted from his hands, 
 
 And from the *cloud, the abode of his power j 
 
 Before Him went the pestilence, 
 
 And glowing fire came forth from his feet. 
 
 He stood, and measured the earth. 
 
 He beheld, and explored the nations. 
 
 And the durable mountains burst asunder, 
 
 The ancient hills fell down, 
 
 His paths In days of old. 
 
 I. 
 
 « I have seen the tents of Cushan under afflidion, 
 The curtains of the land of Midian shake. 
 
 II. 
 •< Was Jehovah Incensed in the floods? 
 Truly In the floods was thy wrath, 
 Verily in the waters thy fury ; 
 But thou madest thy chariot of salvation to ride on the 
 swift ones, 
 
 * " The cloud which accompanied the appearance of Jehovah,
 
 L 134 ] 
 
 Then didst thou set up to view thy bow, 
 
 The pledge to the tribes for thy word. Selah. 
 
 The floods ploughed vallies in the earth; 
 
 The mounuins saw Thee, they travailed. 
 
 Torrents of water gushed forth. 
 
 The abyss uttered his voice, 
 
 The sun lift up his hands on higii, 
 
 The moon stopped in her mansion, 
 
 At the brightness of thy flying arrows. 
 
 At the lightning of thy flashing tqiear. 
 
 I. 
 
 " In indignation thou wilt tread the earth, 
 In fury thou wilt stamp the nations. 
 
 II. 
 " Thou wentest forth for the salvation of thy people. 
 The salvation of thine anointed. 
 
 Thou didst cut oflTthe first-born from the house of the wicked. 
 Thou didst provoke the stubborn to bending. Selah. 
 
 Thou didst strike the fountain with his rod, 
 ♦They were scattered, f they came forth like a whirlwind. 
 To destroy their flourishing crops. 
 While the food of the oppressed was in safety. 
 Thou didst walk thy horses through the sea, 
 Troubling the great waters. 
 
 * The frogs scattered over the land, 
 f The flies, locusts, &c.
 
 [ 135 J 
 
 I. 
 
 «< I heard, and my bowels were moved, 
 At the sound my lips quivered, 
 Rottenness entered into my bones, 
 And they trembled beneath me ; 
 While I groaned for the day of tribulation, 
 The coming up of the people to assault us. 
 
 II. 
 
 *< Though the fig-tree do not blossom, 
 And there be no fi"uit on the vine ; 
 Though the produce of the olive fail. 
 And the parched field yield no foodj 
 Though the flock be cut off from the fold. 
 And there be no cattle in the stalls ; 
 Yet I will rejoice in Jehovah, 
 I will exult in God, my Saviour, 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 ** Jehovah my Lord Is my strength, 
 He will set my feet as the deer's. 
 He will make me to walk on high places." 
 
 ** To the Conqueror of my Assailants j 
 or. 
 To Him who causeth me to triumph in my afiliilions.*'
 
 [ ^36 ] 
 
 Continual study of the Hebrew poetry probably 
 suggested this Hymn; which is dated Feb. 18, 1803, 
 
 *' O Thou ! who commandest the storm. 
 
 And stillest its rage with a word ; 
 
 Who dark'nest the earth with thy clouds. 
 
 And call'st forth the sun in his strength ; 
 
 Who hurlest the proud from his throne, 
 
 And liftest the poor from the dust; 
 
 Who scndest affli(flions for good. 
 
 And blessings at times for a curse; 
 
 Whose ways are impervious to man. 
 
 Whose decrees we've no power to withstand;— 
 
 Thou hast plac'd me in poverty's vale, 
 
 Yet giv'n me contentment and bliss. 
 
 Should'st Thou e'er set me up on the hill, 
 
 O let not my heart be elate ; 
 
 But humility ever abide, 
 
 And gratitude nde in my breast ; 
 
 Let me feel for the woes of the poor. 
 
 Which now I've no pow'r to relieve ; 
 
 Let compassion not end with a tear. 
 
 But charity work for thy sake ; 
 
 And the streams of beneficence fall. 
 
 Enriching the valley beneath ; 
 
 Then though Thou should'st ^vrap me in clouds. 
 
 And threaten the hill with a storm ; 
 
 Yet the sunshine of peace shall break forth. 
 
 And the summit refleft its last ray.'*
 
 [ 137 ] 
 
 I am not sure that the following reflexions are 
 original. They may perhaps be translated from the 
 German; but the sentiments with regard to the 
 weakness of human reason, and the absolute neces- 
 sity of divine assistance, would certainly please Miss 
 S — , as they are perfetlly in unison with her own 
 ideas. 
 
 *^ It is declared in the Scriptures that the natural 
 man knoweth not the things of God, neither can 
 he comprehend them; and I am convinced that this 
 is true. God only requires the heart and its affec- 
 tions, and after these are wholly devoted to Him, 
 He himself worketh all things within it and for it. 
 * My son, give me thy heart ;' and all the rest is con- 
 formity and obedience. This is the simple ground 
 of all religion, which implies a re-union of the soul 
 to a principle which it had lost in its corrupt and 
 fallen state. Mankind have opposed this do6trine, 
 because it has a dire6l tendency to lay very low the 
 pride and elevation of the heart, and the perverse- 
 ness of the will, and prescribes a severe mortification 
 to the passions; it will be found, notwithstanding, 
 either in time or eternity, a most important truth.
 
 [ 138 ] 
 
 " In the Holy Scriptures nothing appears to have 
 a reference to the great work of salvation, but a rec- 
 titude of the heart, and suhjcclion of the will ; and 
 it is clear to my undcrbianding that it should be so: 
 for the mere operations of the head, the lucubrations 
 of reason on divine subje<Sls, are as diflerent as men. 
 The natural powers of man may be san6iified by the 
 influences of religion in the soul, and cease from 
 opposition in matters wherein formerly they took 
 supreme dirc6lion; but until they are in awful silence 
 before God, the work of redemption is unfelt and 
 unknown. 
 
 "Religion is an universal concern; the only 
 important business of our lives. The learned and 
 the ignorant arc equally the objeA of it; and it is 
 highly becoming the Father of Spirits, the friend of 
 man, that all the spirits which he has made, should 
 be equal candidates for his regard ; that his mercy 
 should operate upon a principle, of which mankind 
 are equal partakers. If the reason or the under- 
 standing were alone capable of religious discernment, 
 liine-tenths of the world would be excluded from his 
 providence; but not so does his mercy operate. He
 
 [ 13iJ ] 
 
 influences by love, and the affeiSlions are the only 
 obje6ls of it. 
 
 *^ Look into the opinions of men, contemplate 
 their great diversity, their compleat opposition to 
 each other; and where shall the serious, the refleiSling 
 mind find a peaceful station to rest upon? Where 
 shall it find ' the shadow of a mighty rock, in a 
 weary land' of fluftuating devices and tempests of 
 opinion? Not in human literature, not in the in- 
 ventions of men ; but in silence before the God of 
 our lives, in pure devotion of the heart, and in pros- 
 tration of the soul. The knee bends before the 
 majesty of Omnipotence, and all the powers of the 
 mind say, Amen ! — In matters so important as pure 
 religion, the salvation of the immortal soul, it is 
 highly worthy of Divine Wisdom that He should 
 take the supreme direction to Himself alone, and not 
 leave any part of the work to the device of man ; for 
 it is evident to every candid enquirer, that whenever 
 he interferes he spoils it. Religion is of so pure and 
 spotless a nature, that a touch will contaminate it. 
 It is uniform, consistent, and of the same com- 
 plexion and charader in all nations. Languages 
 and customs may greatly differ j but the language of
 
 [ MO ] 
 
 pure devotion of the heart to its Maker is one and 
 the same over the face of the whole earth. It is 
 acknowledged and felt ,' through the unity of the 
 spirit, in the bond of peace.' There is a harmony 
 and consistency in the works of God, external and 
 internal ; the external operations of nature are 
 stridly typical of internal things; the visible of the 
 invisible world. 
 
 " I am convinced that the Author of our beinir 
 has left nothing to man with respe6l to the formation 
 of religion in the mind of a child, but the opening 
 his path, and clearing his road from the thorns and 
 briars of contagious example. The influences of 
 man consist in pure example, dispassionate per- 
 suasion, and an early subjection of the will to what 
 is written in the law of God. The enlightening the 
 understanding, the purification of the heart, the ac- 
 complishing the course of re6titude to the invisible 
 world, and qualifying the soul for beatitude amongst 
 the spirits of the just, must be left to Supreme 
 wisdom and mercy. The sciences are of very par- 
 tial concern, are in the hands of a few, and are the 
 proper objefts of human wisdom, and attainable by 
 its powers alone 3 but their centre and their circum-
 
 L HI J 
 
 scriptlon is in time. From high attainments in 
 these the mind of man is taught to wonder, but I 
 much question whether he is often taught to adore. 
 They are too apt to raise the mind, to engage a de- 
 voted idolatrous attention, and fix a supercilious dis- 
 regard to the humble appearance of a meek and quiet 
 spirit; and if it were possible that they should ac- 
 company the soul from time to eternity, they would 
 prove asubjeft of humiliation before an eye that is 
 more extensively opened; yet these may be san£li- 
 fied by the influence of religion.'* 
 
 I do not know when Miss S — read Mr. Locke*s 
 Essay on Human Understanding, but it gave occa- 
 sion to the following remarks, which are prefaced 
 with a modest allusion to her own inferiority to this 
 great writer, and were never, I believe, seen by any 
 body till after her death. 
 
 « A fly found fault with one of the finest works of man." 
 
 *' Locke's ideas on Infinity appear to me to 
 want his usual clearness. Perhaps the fault is in 
 my own understanding. I will try to unravel my
 
 [ 142 ] 
 
 thoughts on ihc subjctSl, and sec on which side the 
 error lies. 
 
 *' His manner of representing to h'\mse\f iiifinitj/ 
 is to add together certain known quantities, whether 
 of space or duration, as mile>, or years, and when 
 tired with muUiphcation, he contemplates abound- 
 less remainder. This, indeed, serves to bewilder the 
 mind in the idea of incomprehensible immensity ; 
 the remainder which is always left, is a cloud that 
 conceals the end ; but so far from convincing us there 
 is none, the very idea of a remainder carries with it 
 that of an end; and when we have in thought passed 
 through so large a part of space or duration, we 
 must be nearer the end than when we set out. I 
 think the cause of Mr. Locke's confusion on this 
 subjecl is his use of the word parts. He says that 
 the parts of expansion and duration arc not separa- 
 ble, even in thought. Then why say they have 
 parts? Surely whatever has parts, may be divided 
 into those parts, and what is not divisible, even 
 in imagination, has no parts. He forgets his own 
 excellent definition of time and place, that ' they arc 
 only ideas of determinate distances, from certain 
 known points, fixed in distinguishable, sensible 
 things, and supposed to keep the same distance one
 
 C 143 ] 
 
 from another j' only marks set up for our use while 
 on earth, to help us to arrange things in our narrow 
 understandings by shewing their relative situations, 
 and not really existing in nature. This he forgets, 
 and having granted that duration and expansion have 
 parts, he applies his minutes and his inches to mea- 
 sure eternity and infinite space. To prove the 
 
 fallacy of this method, suppose 10,000 diameters of 
 the earth to be some part, a 10th or 10,000th part 
 of infinite space; then infinite space is exa6lly 10 
 times, or 10,000 times, 10,000 diameters of the earth, 
 and no more. Infinite space has certain bounds, 
 which is a contradiction. There is no impropriety 
 in taking a foot rule to measure the ocean, because 
 multiplied a certain number of times, it will give 
 the extent of the ocean ; but no multiple of what is 
 finite can ever produce infinity ; for though number 
 abstraftedly be infinite, a series of numbers may go 
 on continually increasing, yet no one of those 
 numbers can express infinity, each being in itself a 
 determined quantity. When in the beginning of 
 a series, two are added together, each of those two 
 must be circumscribed, consequently the whole cir- 
 cumscribed adinjinituin. On the contrary, uniti/ 
 
 seems much more capable of expressing infinity.
 
 [ 144 ] 
 
 though \vc finite beings, incapable at present of 
 comprehending it, can form but a vague and inade- 
 quate idea. Unity has no bounds, nor, as Mr. 
 Locke says, any shadow of variety or composition; 
 and to appeal at once to the highest authority, it is 
 the sign that the Great Creator has used, as being 
 the most proper to convey an idea of Himself to 
 our finite understandings. 
 
 " Succession, without which Mr. Locke says he 
 cannot conceive duration, is still a division of it into 
 parts. I believe his opinion to be right, that our 
 only perception of duration is from tlie succession of 
 our own ideas; but is our perception of it the cause 
 of its existence ? No more than our walking over the 
 ground is the cause of its extension. He grants 
 this, when he says, that during sleep we have no 
 perception of duration, but the moment when we 
 fall asleep, and that in which we awake, seem to us 
 to have no distance. Since then there may be 
 duration without our perception of succession, may 
 it not be a6lually without succession? Where all 
 ihinffs are eternal, there can be no relation of the 
 end of one to the beginning of another ; conse- 
 quently no time, the measure of a relation which
 
 [ 145 ] 
 
 does not exist. There is another case in which 
 Mr. Locke thinks a man would perceive no suc- 
 cession in duration;— if it were possible for him to 
 keep his mind entirely fixed on one idea. Does not 
 this apply to the Supreme Being, who having al- 
 ways all ideas present to his mind, can perceive no 
 succession ? As He fills at once all space. He exists 
 at once through all eternity. I do not pretend to 
 have discovered this by the chain of my own reason- 
 ing; it is suggested to me by the name which God 
 gives us of Himself. He tells us, not only that He 
 is rr^ o-y, the existing; but also that He is mn% 
 existence f present, future, and past, in one: which 
 seems to me to mean, not merely that He can look 
 forward or backward into a record of events; but 
 that there is no succession in his duration; that what 
 we call present, past, and future, are always equally 
 present; that all is perfeft unity; there is no variety 
 or shadow of changing. Many passages might be 
 brought from Scripture to confirm this opinion, and 
 some, which I think are not intelligible without it ; 
 such as, * a thousand years are with Him as one 
 day;' * before Abraham was, I am;' * time 
 shall be no longer;' * there was no place found ;' 
 answer exadly to Locke's definition above, and prove 
 
 L
 
 [ 146 ] 
 
 that there is no division in eternity or infinite space. 
 The dispute about foreknowledge and free-will 
 might be settled by viewing the subje6l in this light. 
 If there be no succession in the existence of God, 
 if the past and future be equally present, He sees the 
 whole course of our lives at once, as clearly as any 
 particular moment which wc now call present, with- 
 out influencing our actions more at one point of 
 time that at another. The infinite divisibility of 
 matter too may be denied, on the ground that what 
 admits of division or multiplication, cannot be 
 infinite. 
 
 '* I have observed another inaccuracy in Mr. 
 Locke, as spots are most visible on the whitest 
 substance, 
 
 *' He defines knowledge to be ^ the perception 
 of the agreement or disagreement of any of our 
 ideas.' So far well: but to be sure that it is real 
 knowledge, he says, * we must be sure those ideas 
 agree with the reality of things.' This is also 
 true; but as we have no perception of things but 
 by means of sensation, and we have often, on a 
 closer inspe6lion, discovered that our senses have 
 deceived us, how can we know that they do not 
 alwavs deceive us ? If we cannot know this, we
 
 [ 147 ] 
 
 cannot be sure that our ideas agree with the reaUty 
 of things, consequently cannot attain to any real 
 knowledge during this life. We can only believe 
 testimony which upon experience we have reason to 
 think true, and can be said absolutely to know no- 
 thing but what God has been pleased to reveal.. If 
 it be asked how we know that He has revealed any 
 thing to us, the answer is, we can only believe it; 
 but on examining the testimony, we find there is 
 full as good proof that we have revelations from Got* 
 Himself in the Scriptures, as that any objett of sen- 
 sation is what it appears to be. If therefore we 
 grant our assent to the one, why refuse it to the 
 other? And having once established that we have 
 revelations from God Himself in the Scriptures, it 
 follows, that what is so revealed must be true ; and 
 thai from thence we may reap real knowledge. 
 Whatever else we call knowledge, is cither mere 
 conjecture, or derived through some channel or 
 other from revelation. Of this I am the more con- 
 vinced by observing ideas current amongst men, 
 which it seems impossible they should originally 
 form. Such is the idea of a God, of infinity, and 
 eternity; for notwithstanding the boasted powers of 
 L 2
 
 [ H8 ] 
 
 human reason, and the light of nature;* — since I 
 find them incapable of discovering the essence of the 
 most familiar ohjedl, or of taking the first step in 
 any science, — I have great reason to doubt their 
 power of discovering the being of God j and infi- 
 nity and eternity never coming within their percep- 
 tion, I am persuaded men never could form such 
 ideas. Therefore if they were led by the contem- 
 plation of nature to conje£lure there must be some 
 cause of all the wonders it presents, they would still 
 seek for some cause of that cause, and merely be 
 lost in endless speculations. If it be obje6ted, that 
 some of the ancient philosophers had the idea of 
 infinity, and that the existence of a God is believed 
 by most nations: I answer, it was not human reason 
 made those discoveries ; if it were, why have not all 
 nations equal lights, all having the sameguidei On 
 the contrary, T have no doubt that whatever vague 
 ideas of Deity arc found in any country, might, if 
 we knew the exa£l history of its inhabitants, be 
 traced to the original revelation to Adam, to Noah, 
 &c. preserved or corrupted by tradition. This has 
 been done in a great measure with respedl to some 
 
 * « I wish to ask what Mr. Locke means by the Tghtof 
 nature, when he has proved that we have no innate ideas?
 
 [ 149 ] 
 
 of the Indian nations, by Sir William Jones and 
 others, and it still remains a fine field for future 
 research. If we examine those nations of antiquity 
 which had the most nearly adequate ideas of the 
 Deity, we shall find them to be those which were 
 favoured with the most frequent revelations. The 
 Jews clearly stand foremost in both these respects 5 
 and why should they, who were never thought su- 
 perior to the Greeks in abilities, be supposed capable 
 of more sublime ideas, unless they received them 
 from revelation ? Why should some of the Greek 
 philosophers come so much nearer the truth than 
 others of not inferior capacities, but that besides 
 the vulgar belief of their country, (the corruption of 
 original revelation,) they received instruction from 
 some of the Jews, or from the study of the Sibylline 
 Oracles, and the verses of Orpheus ? If, on the con- 
 trary, we look at those nations furthest removed in 
 tin)e and place from the centre of dispersion, as the 
 savages of America, Africa, &c. those particularly 
 who, having had the least commerce with the rest of 
 the world, come nearest to our ideas of nature j we 
 find that their reason, though unwarped by the pre- 
 judices of education, far from leading them to su- 
 perior knowledge, and a more intimate acquaintance
 
 [ 150 J 
 
 with God and his' works than is to be met with 
 in oivilizcti society, has left thcni but one defi^r^c 
 above the brutes they associate with. Original re- 
 velation, not only of the existence of a God, but 
 of all arts and sciences, except perhaps those most 
 immediately necessary to existence, l>eing in some 
 entirely worn out, in others so mutilated and de- 
 faced as scarcely to be recognized; — in the midst of 
 this darkness no gehius starts up with the discovery 
 of abstrart truth; there does not seem even to be 
 any progress in improvement; for the accounts of 
 some of them at this day agree cxaAly with what 
 was written of ihem ages ago. If then man were 
 originally created in the savage state, how came the 
 improvements we observe amongst ourselves, since^ 
 when reduced again to that state, we see him inca- 
 pable of taking the first step towards getting out of 
 it? I think this is the fair way of stating the parallel 
 between hunrKin reason and divine revelation ; for 
 though all knowledge would still come from God, 
 if He made man capable of -discovering it, it seems 
 to me plain that He has not done so; and therefore 
 we should do well to apply to his word for instruc- 
 tion in the first place, as being the only fountain of 
 real knowlcdt;e/*
 
 [ 151 ] 
 
 The family had resided five years at C— — , and 
 had enjoyed very good health. Elizabeth v?as par- 
 ticularly fond of the place, and the air seemed to 
 agree with her better than any othtr. The beauty 
 of the surrounding scenery, her enthusiastic admi- 
 ration of such magnificent and sublime view^s as that 
 country affords, and her taste for drawing, certainly 
 led her to trust too much to the strength of her ex- 
 cellent constitution, and to use more exercise than 
 was good for her; but it did not appear to disagree 
 with her, and I do not know that there was any 
 cause of alarm in regard to her health, till the fatal 
 evening in July 1 805, which is mentioned by Mrs, 
 S — in a letter to Dr. R — , to which I refer the 
 reader.* It was on the 17th of Odlober 1805, that 
 Miss S — arrived at Bath in the sad state which that 
 letter describes. What / felt at this meeting may 
 be easily imagined. During the few days which 
 she spent with me, the skill of Dr. G — , and the 
 care of the tenderest of parents, appeared to be at- 
 tended with all the benefit we could expeft. She 
 had lost her voice, as well as the use of her limbs ; 
 but she enjoyed society, and expressed particular 
 
 * See Appendix.
 
 [ 152 ] 
 
 pleasure in meeting Mr. Dc Luc, who spent some 
 hours with us. When she was ahlc to be removed 
 to the house of her kind friends Mr. and Mrs. C — , 
 I went to Chfton, where a dangerous iUncss detained 
 me, till my extreme anxiety to see Miss S — before 
 fthc left Bath, determined me to return on the 2l6t 
 of December. My dear friend came to me the next 
 morning, and appeared so much better in every 
 respccl, that I was led to cherish hopes which les- 
 sened the pain of our approaching parting. She 
 could then converse with case and pleasure, and 
 walk without difHculty, and the last hours which I 
 was ever to enjoy with her in this world, were some 
 of the m«st delightful that I ever spent. She anxi- 
 ously wished to be removed to Sunbury to see her 
 amiable sister before her marriage; and after sleep- 
 ing one night at my houie, she set out for that place 
 with Mrs. 5 — , and I saw her no more. 
 
 A letter writ^en immediately after her removal 
 from Bath, to her kind friend Mrs. C — , shews hovr 
 much better she was at that time, and that she was 
 able to resume some of her favourite pursuits.
 
 [ 153 J 
 
 " To Mrs. C— . 
 
 " Sunburj/, Dec. 28, 1803. 
 ** Dear Madam, 
 
 " Having no excuse of illness for employing an 
 amanuensis, I take the pen myself to thank you for 
 all your goodness to me, of which I assure you I 
 shall always retain a grateful sense. The good 
 effedls of your nursing now appear. I was certainly 
 somewhat fatigued with the journey, and for the 
 first two days after I arrived was but indifferent, but 
 yesterday and to-day I am astonishingly well, have 
 learnt to sleep, and cough but little. I have been 
 thus particular in the account of myself, because, 
 from the kind interest you and Mr. C — take in my 
 welfare, I know you would wish it. 
 
 *' I am very busy tracing the situation of Troy, in 
 Mr. Cell's book, and am very well satisfied with it. 
 Yesterday we took an airing to Hampton-Court and 
 Twickenham. The day was delightful, and the air 
 seemed to give me new life. 
 
 ** K — returns her best thanks for all your good 
 wishes, and hopes to make her acknowledgments 
 more fully in person. You bave perhaps heard that
 
 [ 154 ] 
 she is to be married on Wednesday, and go to — — 
 
 " With grateful and affectionate respc£ls to Mr. 
 C — , I remain, dear Madam, 
 
 " Your ever obliged, &c, E. S.'* 
 
 For some time after she arrived at Sir J. L — 's at 
 Sunbury, Elizabeth was able to enjoy the agreeable 
 society which that house affords, to walk out a little, 
 and to take constant exercise in a carriage; but these 
 favourable appearances did not continue long. 1 
 had a letter, in which she hinted at the dangerous 
 state in which she evidently thought she was j and 
 ail extra6t from one written to her beloved sister 
 speaks the same language with regard to her health. 
 
 " March 23th, 
 ** I want you, my K — , to be ascomposed on this 
 subject, as I am myself. You must not be fright- 
 ened when vou hear 1 am worse, nor because it is 
 said that I am better, suppose that I am to be immedi- 
 jitely well; for both mean nothing, and perhaps last 
 but a few hours. I have myself a decided opinion 
 cf the probability of the event, and I see no kind-
 
 [ 155 ] 
 
 ness in feeding you with false hopes. I wish you to 
 be prepared for what you^ though not /, would call 
 the worst, I do not mean that there are any 
 symptoms to cause immediate alarm, but the con- 
 stitution seems to be wearing out ; that, however^ 
 may be restored by the warm air of the spring and 
 summer. Assure Mr. A— of my esteem and re- 
 gard, and tell him I shall never forget his kind 
 attentions to me, &c/* 
 
 To her friend Mrs. W — she writes thus : 
 
 -, July 4, 1806. 
 
 *f I am sure, my dear Mrs. W — has not attri- 
 buted to unkindness or negle6t, or any of those 
 impossible things, my keeping unanswered a most 
 kind letter of her's, from January to July. The 
 case is this. I thought you heard enough of me, 
 while my mother was at Bath. After she came to 
 Sunbury, we were always going, and I was never 
 well enough, or quiet enough, to write to you as I 
 liked; besides, I thought I should write from Mat- 
 lock, where I should fancy that you were present, 
 and that I was talking to you. Often, indeed, did
 
 f 1^6 ] 
 
 we talk of you, and wish for you there ; but there 
 again there was no quiet, and I never felt equal t6 
 writing, or doing any thing. In short, I have never 
 had a pen in my hand from the time I left Sunbury, 
 till nowj and now, if my father were not going 
 to-morrow, I should put ofT writing, in hopes of 
 being more able to say something to you some other 
 day. This, however, I can say to-diy, or any dayj— 
 that though my strength has failed, my memory and 
 afffflions have not; and that while they rcniain, 
 you will ever hold your place in the one, and your 
 share in the other. I am much concerned at the 
 
 accounts which I hear of you. It is very tedious 
 
 to suffer so long; but we shall all be better soon. 
 
 ** As to myself, of whom I know you will wish 
 to hear something, I do very well when the sun 
 shines, and the wind is in the south; I seem then to 
 inhale new life at every pore; hut if a northern blast 
 spring up, (my original enemy,) I seem to shrink 
 and wither like a blighted leaf. To avoid this 
 enemy, I am obliged to keep the house, which is 
 not at all favourable to a recovery. I have been as 
 ill, I think, since I came home, as I have ever been; 
 but better the last few days, which have been fine 
 ones. My mother is ail kindness and attention to
 
 [ 157 ] 
 
 me, and T— is the best nurse In the world ; but all 
 this care will turn to no account, unless the summer 
 should happen to be a fine one. I am perfedly easy 
 as to the event, and only wish I were not so trou- 
 blesome to others. You would love L — , if you 
 
 knew how thoughtful and attentive he has been to 
 me. He will be a great loss to me, and to my 
 mother a still greater; for he is her constant compa- 
 nion, and a very entertaining one. My mother de- 
 sires me to say every thing that is kind for her ; but 
 indeed I have so much to say for myself, and am so 
 totally incapable of saying it, that I must leave you 
 to fill up the blank with what you know of us both, 
 not forgetting that Mrs. B — is always to have her 
 full share. Your ever afTeflionate &c." 
 
 From the time that Mrs. S — left Bath, which 
 was about the end of March, the accounts which I 
 received in all her letters, most strongly painted the 
 anguish which her too tender heart felt, while watch- 
 ing the gradual approach of the dreaded event which 
 she had from the first considered as inevitable. On 
 the th of July, Capt S — and his youngest son L— 
 spent some hours with me in their way to Plymouth,
 
 and brought me a letter from Elizabeth, of which 
 the following is an cxtra*5l. It is the last that I ever 
 received from that dear hand! 
 
 " Having determined to send a few lines by my 
 father to my best of friends, before your kind and 
 most welcome ktter arrived, I am not now dis- 
 obeying your commands by writing, but fulfilling 
 my own previous intention. I can never thank you 
 enough for all the kind interest you take in me and 
 my health. T wish my friends were as composed 
 about it a-; I am; for thanks to you and your ever 
 dear and respefled mother, I have learnt to look on 
 life and death with an equal eye, and knowing where 
 my hope is fixed, to receive every dispensation of 
 Providence with gratitude, as intended for my ulti- 
 mate good. The only wish I ever form, and even 
 that 1 check, is that my illnes? might be more 
 severe, so it might be shortened; that I might 
 not keep my father and mother so long in suspense 
 with regard to all their plans, and occasion so much 
 trouble and anxiety to my friends. — I should like to 
 say much to vou on this subject, but I am pressed 
 for time, and as you may see, I do not make a very 
 good hand of writing,— You enquire how the change
 
 C 159 ] 
 
 of weather affefted me? As much as you can pos* 
 sibly suppose. During the hot weather I really 
 thought I should get rid of the cough; but with the 
 cold, every symptom returned as strong as ever. 
 Yesterday and to-day have been warm and pleasant, 
 I get into the tent, where I now am, and revive. 
 We shall indeed lose a great comfort when L — * goes 
 He has been most kindly attentive tome. &c. &c,** 
 
 In my answer to this letter I did not attempt to 
 deceive my friend; I knew her too well to think it 
 necessary or right to do so. I wrote as to a Christian 
 on the verge of eternity, and whose whole life, as 
 her mother justly observes, had been a preparation 
 for death. I received her thanks for my letter, in a 
 most kind message conveyed to me by Mrs. S— , 
 who spoke in every letter of increasing illness, — till 
 in one which she kindly addressed to my friend Mrs, 
 JD — , she said, ** this morning the angel spirit fiedl" 
 Aug. 7, 180G. 
 
 * Her youngest brother ; who was then going to sea for 
 the firs!; time.
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 M
 
 Letters from Mrs. S to the Rev. t)r. M- 
 
 written after the Death of 3Iiss S ■« 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 " C , 1807. 
 
 ^' T Am gratified, my dear Sir, in complying with 
 your wish, because the request proves that the 
 esteem which you professed for my beloved daugh- 
 ter's charader, is not buried with her in the gravej 
 and because it justifies me to myself for dwelling 
 so much on a subject on which I have a melancholy 
 pleasure in reflecting. I shall repress the feelings and 
 partiality of a parent, and merely state a few simple 
 fa<Sts, connected with the progress of her mind. 
 
 " Elizabeth was born at B , in the county of 
 
 Durham, in December 1776. At a very early age 
 
 she discovered that love of reading, and that close 
 
 application to whatever she engaged in, which 
 
 M 2
 
 [ iGl ] 
 
 inarkcd her cliaraAcr through life. Slic was accus- 
 tomed, when only three years old, to leave an elder 
 brother and younger sister to play and anuise them- 
 selves, whilst she eagerly seized on such hooks as a 
 nursery library commonly afTords, and made herself 
 mistress of their contents. At four years of age she 
 read extremely well. What in others is usually the 
 effect of education and habit, seemed born with her; 
 from a very babe the utmost regularity was obser- 
 \able in all her aclions; whatever she did was well 
 done, and with an apparent refle6lion far beyond her 
 years. I mention these minute circumstances, be- 
 cause I know that whatever pourtrays her character, 
 will interest the friend for whose perusal I write. 
 
 '' In the beginning of 1782, we removed into a 
 distant county, at the earnest intreaty of a blind 
 relation; and in the following year, my attendance 
 on him becoming so necessary as daily to engage 
 several hours, at his request I was induced to 
 take a young lady, whom he wished to serve, in 
 consequence of her family having experienced some 
 severe misfortunes. This lady was then scarcely 
 sixteen, and I expefted merely to have found a 
 companion for my children during my absence ; 
 but her abilities exceeded her years, and she became
 
 [ 165 ] 
 
 their govemegs during our stay in SufTolk, which 
 was about eighteen months. On the death of my 
 relation in 1784, we returned to B — , and remained 
 there till June in the following year, when we re- 
 moved to Piercefield. In the course of the pre- 
 ceding winter Elizabeth had made an uncommon 
 progress in music. From the time of our quitting 
 Suffolk, till the spring of 1786, my children had 
 no instruction except from myself; but their former 
 jroverness then returned to mcj and continued in 
 the family three years longer. By her the children 
 were instrufted in French, and in the little Italian 
 which she herself then understood. I mention 
 these particulars to prove how very little instruction 
 in languages my daughter received, and that the 
 knowledge she afterwards acquired of them was the 
 effect of her own unassisted study, 
 
 *^ It frequently happens that circumstances appa- 
 rently trifling determine our charaCler, and some- 
 times even our fate in life. I always thought that 
 Elizabeth was first induced to apply herself to the 
 study of the learned languages, by accidentally 
 hearing that the late Mrs. B — acquired some know- 
 ledge of Hebrew and Greek, purposely to read the 
 Holy Scriptures in the original languages. In the
 
 C ^ee ] 
 
 summer of 1789, this most excellent woman, with 
 her youngest daughter, spent a month at Piercefield, 
 and I have reason to hail it as one of the happiest 
 months of my life. From that period to the hour 
 of her death, I had in Mrs. B — the steadiest, the 
 most affeftionate of friends ; a friend who had at 
 heart not only the temporal, but the eternal happi- 
 ness of myself and family; and who, in proportion as 
 summer friends flew off, became yet more attached 
 to me. ■ ' 
 
 '^From the above-mentioned visit I date the turn 
 of study which Elizabeth ever after pursued, and 
 which, I firmly believe, the amiable condu6l of our 
 guests first led her to delight in. Those who knew 
 the late Mrs. B — , could not withhold from her their 
 love and reverence. With young persons she had ?i 
 manner peculiar to herself, which never failed to 
 secure their affections, at the moment she conveyed 
 to their minds the most important instrudlions. 
 TheWord of God was her chief study and delight, 
 and she always endeavoured to make it so to others. 
 The uncommon strength of her understanding, and 
 the clearness with which she explained the most ab- 
 struse subjects, ensured her the admiration and respeft
 
 [ 167 ] 
 
 of all who heard her ; and none listened with more 
 attention than Elizabeth, on whose young mind 
 every good and amiable principle was afterwards 
 strongly impressed by Mrs. H. B — . My daughter 
 was then only twelve years oldj but her superior 
 talents and turn of mind gained the valuable af- 
 fedlion of her much older friend, who never lost an 
 opportunity of improving the former, and of forming 
 the latter. As a proof of the correclness of this as- 
 sertion, I send you a letter written by Mrs. H. B— 
 to my daughter on her being confirmed, and which 
 I have reason to believe made all the impression my 
 excellent friend intended, and was ever afterwards 
 the standard by which she formed her character, 
 « I am, dear Sir, &c." 
 
 Mrs. H. B— TO Miss S . 
 
 [^Sent to Dr. R — iv'ith th preceding Letter. "^ 
 
 " My dear Friend, Dec. 1791. 
 
 " You are now entering on what appears to mc 
 
 the most important period of life, and let me hope 
 
 that my anxiety for your happiness, and the tender 
 
 affection which I feel for you, will plead my excuse
 
 [ 168 ] 
 
 for troubling you with a few observations upon it. 
 In childhood, our a«^ions are under the controul of 
 others, and we arc scarcely answerable for theni;^. 
 but from the period wheii we renew our baptismal 
 vow in Confirmation, and solemnly dedicate ourselves 
 to th€ service of our Creator and Redeemer by re- 
 ceiving the Holy Eucharist, we must be considered 
 as thinking and a6ling for ourselves j though still 
 subject to the commands, and happy in the advice,, 
 of our parents. You have, I presume, been suffi- 
 ciently instrutled in all the necessary articles of faith; 
 but I know you think deeply on all subjects, and if 
 you feel any doubts, or see any difficulties, in the 
 Christian Religion, this is the time when you should 
 endeavour to satisfy yourself with regard to them, 
 and perhaps ray library might afford you that sa- 
 tisfailion, if you would indulge me with your con- 
 fidence, and mention them to me. The necessary 
 articles of faith appear to me few and simple, and 
 rather addressed to the heart than the head. The 
 Gospel was preached to the poor and ignorant, as 
 well as to the learned j and the seed sprung up and 
 bore fruit, whenever it fell on good ground. But 
 those who have abilities and opportunity, should 
 spare no pains to examine the evidences which have
 
 , [ 169 ] 
 
 convinced some of the wisest men that ever lived, of 
 the divine authority of the Holy Scriptures; and 
 such an examination is particularly necessary in the 
 present times. When we are convinced that the 
 Bible is the word of God, and the rule of our faith 
 and pra6lice, nothing remains but to listen with 
 reverence and devotion to the divine instruction it 
 contains, and to believe, on the authority of God, 
 what our weak reason could never have discovered, 
 nor can fully comprehend. The humble, pious, 
 and virtuous mind, which willingly accepts the 
 gracious promises of the Gospel, and is fully resol- 
 ved to pra«3.ise the duties it enjoins, will seldom be 
 disturbed by those objeftions to its dodrines which 
 have been often answered to the satisfatSlion of the 
 best and wisest men. The Christian religion is so 
 suited to a feeling heart, that I think we can want 
 DO arguments for its truth, except those which are 
 drawn from its evident tendency to make us virtuous 
 and happy. To love the God who created and re- 
 deemed us; to express our gratitude for infinite 
 obligations, by the sincere though imperfeft service 
 of a few years; to cast all our care on Him who 
 careth for us; and, secure in his prote£lion, to banish 
 every gloomy apprehension which might disturb our
 
 [ no ] ' 
 
 peace; — ^^this surely must appear an easy task to those 
 who know and feel the pleasure of even an earthli/ 
 friendship : but when we add to this the certainty 
 that our endeavours to please will be not only ac. 
 cepted, but rewarded; when every Christian can 
 say, * after a few years, perhaps after a few hours, I 
 shall, if it is not my own fault, be happy, perfe6lly 
 happy to all eternity;' surely, with such encourage- 
 ments and such hopes, no temptation should have 
 power to draw us from our duty. Yet when we 
 look into the world, when we see how little influence 
 these principles have in society, and how seldom 
 they guard the heart against the allurements of 
 pleasure, or support it under the pressure of afflic- 
 tion; it must be evident to every thinking mind, 
 that very great and constant care is necessary to 
 preserve through life those good resolutions, which I 
 believe most people form when they enter into it. 
 For this purpose allow me to recommend constant 
 devotion, A few minutes spent every morning and 
 evening in this duty will be the best preservative 
 against the temptations to which we must beexposed; 
 hut in order to make it really useful, it should be 
 accompanied with self examination, and it should be 
 followed by such an habitual sense of the presence
 
 [ ni ] 
 
 of God as may influence our conduft in every part 
 of our life. In our gayest as well as in our gravest 
 moments ; in our studies, and our pleasures; in the 
 tender intercourse of friendship; in the sprightly 
 sallies of a conversation which seems only intended 
 for amusement; still we should be able to turn our 
 thoughts with heartfelt satisfadion to that tender 
 Parent to whom we owe all our guiltless pleasures. 
 ' Whether ye eat or drink, or whatever ye do, do all 
 to the glory of God.' The business in which we 
 cannot ask his prote6tion and assistance, cannot be 
 an innocent pursuit; the amusement for which we 
 dare not thank Him, cannot be an innocent pleasure. 
 This rule strongly impressed on the mind, and ap- 
 plied to every circumstance in life, will be a constant 
 guard over virtue in all situations, and a constant 
 pheck to every thought as well as atSlion which i- 
 
 contrary to our duty. Such, I think, should be 
 
 the piety of a true Christian; and such piety will 
 undoubtedly aflbrd the highest pleasures we are 
 capable of feeling in this world, while it guards that 
 virtue which will secure our happiness in the next. 
 But to entitle ourselves to this intercourse with our 
 God, we must carefully and constantly attend to 
 the state of our souls, by frequent and diligent self-
 
 [ 1-2 ] 
 
 examination. As this appears to nie a point of great 
 importance at all times, and particularly as prepa« 
 ratory to receiving the Holy Sacrament, allow me 
 to explain more fully what I took the liberty of 
 saying when we conversed on this subjeft. 
 
 *' At our entrance into life, (by which I mean the 
 period which follows the total dependence of child- 
 hood,) it is necessary to obtain a just idea of our 
 own chara(5ler, and of our particular duties. No- 
 body is so perfe6l as not to have a tendency to some 
 fault. Pride, passion, fretfulncss, obstinacy, indo- 
 lence, and many other failings, are perhaps born 
 with us, and whoever has not discovered one or 
 more of these in his heart, certainly does not know 
 himself. Let us then, as the first step towards 
 wisdom and virtue, carefully study our own charac- 
 ter, and determine where our principal danger lies; 
 and remember, as my beloved Sister observes, that 
 * he who has discovered a fault in his character, and 
 intreated God's assistance to con([uer it, has en- 
 gaged Omnipotence on his side.' 
 . " The next point to be considered is our particu- 
 lar situation, and the duties it requires. It is vain 
 to suppose we could do better in different circum- 
 stances, or to think that our imaginary merits will
 
 [ 173 ] 
 
 cover our real faults^ we are not to choose our own 
 part in life, but to acl properly that which is as- 
 signed to us. What are my particular duties ? How 
 can I best serve God? How can I most contribute 
 to the happiness of those with whom I am connect- 
 ed ? How can I employ my lime and my talents to 
 the best advantage ? What are the errors into which 
 1 am most likely to fall ? Do I hurt those whom I 
 am most bound to please, by pride, peevishness, or 
 contempt; or do I make them happy by constant 
 kindness, gentleness, and long-suffering ? These are 
 questions which every human being should ask his 
 own heart, and which only his own heart can an-^ 
 swer. From an examination of this kind, I should 
 wish every one who really aims at Christian perfec- 
 tion to make out in writing a plan of life suited 
 to his particular situation and charaAer, and reso- 
 lutely determine to a6l up to it. This requires time 
 and reflection; but this once done our task will be 
 much easier afterwards. A few minutes every night 
 should be spent in considering how far we have 
 conformed to that plan through the day, which 
 I think is most easily discovered by considering 
 how the day has been spent; for every thing, be it 
 ever so trifling, if it is to be done at all, may be done
 
 [ 174 ] 
 
 well or ill. — Did I attend to my devotions in the 
 mornino-? Have I done good, or contributed to the 
 happiness of others; or have I given pain to any 
 human being by unkindness? Have I been surpri- 
 sed by those faults, whatever they are, which I have 
 most reason to dread; or have I carefully avoided 
 them? — Such questions constantly asked, and im- 
 partially answered, will prevent our acquiring wrong 
 habits; and nothing is itnconguerable, which is not 
 habitual. Bishop Andrews says, * sleep is so Uke 
 death, that 1 dare not venture on it without prayer;' 
 and I think it would be well if we considered it ii> 
 that light, and made our peace with God at the end 
 of every day, as if it were the last we should enjoy. 
 I am sure the habit of doing this would greatly lessen 
 the horrors of that awful period, when we must make 
 up our accounts, however painful it may be to us. 
 When habit has made this easy, little more will be 
 necessary to guard ua against that self-deceit which 
 is our most dangerous enemy; but at stated times, 
 as at the beginning of every year, and when wc 
 intend to receive the Sacrament, it will be useful to 
 take a general review of our past life, and compare 
 it with the plan we had determined to pursue, in 
 order to see how far we have kept the good reso-
 
 [ ns ] 
 
 lutions we had formed, and in what respedl it is 
 most necessary to guard our future condu 61. 
 
 ** Perhaps, my dear young friend, I have said no- 
 thing which your own good sense would not point 
 out to you much better than I am capable of doing 
 it, and I have taken a liberty for which I can only 
 plead the advantage which very moderate talents 
 must gain from experience. I have lived longer in 
 the world than you, and have felt the ill effects of 
 many errors which I hope you will avoid; but I have 
 also sometimes felt the good efFedls of those prin- 
 ciples, and that line of condu6l, which I wish to 
 recommend to you, and in which I trust Providence 
 will guide you to eternal happiness. &c. &c,*' 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 Mrs. S— to the Rev. Dr. R— . 
 
 " At the age of thirteen, Elizabeth became a sort 
 of governess to her younger sisters, for I then parted 
 with, the only one I ever had, and from that time 
 the progress she made in acquiring languages, both 
 ancient and modern, was most rapid. — This degree
 
 [ 176 1 
 
 of information, so unusual in a woman, occasioned 
 no confusion in her well-regulated mind. She was 
 a living library; but locked up except to a chosen 
 few. Her talents were ' like bales unopened to 
 the sunj' and from a want of communication were 
 not as beneficial to others as they might have been, 
 for her dread of being called a learned lady caused 
 such an excess of modest reserve as perhaps formed 
 the greatest dcfe£l in her character. But I will go 
 back to the period of which I was speaking. 
 
 *' When Elizabeth was fifteen years old, we were 
 reading Warrington's History of Wales, in which 
 he mentions the death of Llewellyn-ap-Griffydd, as 
 happening on the banks of the Wye, at a place 
 which he calls Buillt, and its having been occa- 
 sioned by his being pierced with a spear, as he 
 attempted to make his escape through a grove. We 
 amused ourselves with supposing that Llewellyn's 
 death-must have happened in our grove, where two 
 large stones were erected (as we chose to imagine) 
 to commemorate that event ; and that the adjoining 
 grounds were from thenceforth called Piercefield. 
 This conversation gave rise to a poem, of which Mrs. 
 H. B — has a copy, with other papers on the same 
 subject, for a sight for which I refer you to her.
 
 r 177 ] 
 
 *' When a reverse of fortune drove us from Pierce - 
 field, my daughter had just entered her seventeenth 
 year, an age at which she might have been sup- 
 posed to have lamented deeply many consequent 
 privations. Of the firmness of her mind on that 
 occasion, no one can judge better than yourself; 
 for you had an opportunity to observe it, when im- 
 mediately after the blow was struck, you offered, 
 from motives of generous friendship, to undertake a 
 charge which no pecuniary considerations could 
 induce you to accept a few months before. I do 
 not recolle6l a single instance of a murmur having 
 escaped her, or the least expression of regret at what 
 she had lost; on the contrary she always appeared 
 contented; and particularly after our fixing at 
 
 C , it seemed as if the place and mode of 
 
 life were such as she preferred, and in which she 
 was most happy. 
 
 " I pass over in silence a time in which we had 
 no home of our own, and when, from the deranged 
 state of our affairs, we were indebted for one to the 
 kindness and generosity of a friend;* nor do I speak 
 of the time spent in Ireland, when following the 
 regiment with my husband, because the want of a 
 
 * Mrs. M— , now Mrs. G. S— • 
 N
 
 [ 178 ] 
 
 settled abode Interrupted those studies in which my 
 daughter most delighted. Books are not light of 
 carriage, and the blow which deprived us of Pierce- 
 field, deprived us of a library also. But though this 
 period of her life aflbrded little opportunity for im- 
 provement in science, the qualities of her heart never 
 appeared in a more amiable light. Through all the 
 inconveniences which attended our situation while 
 Hving in barracks, the firmness and cheerful resig- 
 nation of her mind, ai the age of nineteen, made me 
 blush for the tear which too frequently trembled in 
 xny eye, at the recollcdion of all the comforts we 
 iiad lost. 
 
 *' In 06lober 1800, we left Ireland, and deter- 
 mined on seekinj; out some retired situation in 
 England; in the hope that by strict oeconomy, and 
 with the blessing of cheerful, contented minds, we 
 might yet find something like comfort; which the 
 frequent change of quarters with four children, and 
 the then insecure state of Ireland, made it impos- 
 sible to feel, notwithstanding the kind and generoua 
 attention we invariably received from the hospitable 
 
 inhabitants of that country.' We passed the 
 
 winter in a cottage on the banks of the Lake of 
 Ulswater, a«d continued there till the May follow*
 
 t m 3 
 
 itig, wLen we removed to our present residence at 
 
 C . This country had many charms for 
 
 Elizabeth. She drew corre(9:Iy from nature, and 
 her enthusiastic admiration of the subUme and 
 beautiful ofien carried her beyond the bounds of 
 prudent precaution with regard to her health. Fre- 
 quently in the summer she was out during twelve or 
 fourteen hours, and in that time walked many miles. 
 When she returned at night she was always more 
 cheerful than usual ; never said she was fatigued, 
 and seldom appeared so. It is astonishing how she 
 found time for all she acquired, and all she accom- 
 plished. Nothing was neglected; there was a scru- 
 pulous attention to all the minutiae of her sex; for 
 her well-regulated mind, far from despising them, 
 considered them as a part of that system of perfeftion 
 at which she aimed ; an aim which was not the re* 
 suit of vanity, nor to attradl the applause of the 
 world 5 no human being ever sought it less, or was 
 more entirely free from conceit of every kind. The 
 approbation of God and of her own conscience 
 were the only rewards she ever sought ; but her own 
 words declare this truth much more forcibly than I 
 can, in a paper which is now in Mrs. H. B— ^S 
 possession. 
 
 N 3
 
 [ 160 ] 
 
 '' Her translation of the Book of Job was finished 
 in 1803. During the two last years of her hfe, she 
 was engaged in translating from the German some 
 letters and papers, written by Mr. and Mrs. Klop- 
 stock. Amongst her papers I found a letter from 
 Mrs. II. B — on this subject, dated March 1805, 
 in which she say?, * my endeavours to obtain a 
 clear account of the new edition of Klopstock's 
 works have been unsuccessful, but I still hope that 
 I shall very soon know whether it contains any 
 thing new, or worth sending to you. In the mean 
 time, if you arc not tired, let me have every thing 
 written by Mrs. Klop.stock. Wc can determine on 
 nothing till we have got all our treasures,' The 
 rest of this letter does not particularly relate to my 
 daughter, but I cannot forbear copying it, for a 
 reason that will be obvious to you. ' Miss H— 
 and I wished for a little country air, and perfedl 
 quiet. We arc in a lovely spot; not possessing the 
 sublime beauties of your country, but the prettiest, 
 cheerful scene imaginable; ornamented with little 
 neat cottages, fields covered with lambs, fine trees, 
 and the whole beautifully varied with hill and dale. 
 To me it has still greater charms, as it is n)y native 
 country, the scene of my early happiness :
 
 [ 181 ] 
 
 *« Where erst my careless childhood stray'd, 
 " A stranger yet to pain!" 
 
 My Jirst house is always before my eyes, and my. 
 last is so near that T can listen to the bell which, 
 tolled for those who were most dear to me on earth, 
 and visit the humble tomb where I hope to rest with 
 them. Do you remember how often, during the last 
 few weeks of her life, and after her faculties were 
 much weakened by illness, my dearest mother used 
 to say to herself, * Verily there is a reward for the 
 righteous!' We have placed these words on the 
 stone which covers a vault, in which a little space 
 remains for me. God grant that I may have 
 reason to repeat them in my last moments with 
 the faith and hope that animated her sweet coun- 
 tenance ! Near forty years have elapsed since my 
 
 parents quitted their residence in this country, but 
 it is very pleasing to witness the gratitude with 
 which they are still remembered. I talk to the poor 
 grey-headed peasants, and delight to hear them say, 
 * The Squire and Madam were very good,* What ' 
 ever those may think who have only titles or wealth 
 to boast of, the good are remembered longer than 
 the great; and the name which I inherit from my 
 father, still conciliates more good will in this little
 
 [ 183 ] 
 
 spot than any in the Peerage. Indeed it is so easy 
 to be beloved, it costs so little money or trouble, 
 and it pays such rich interest, that I wonder more 
 attention is not bestowed on it.'* 
 
 ** For the translations from Klopstock, and from 
 the Hebrew Bible, as well as for many other writing* 
 both in verse and prose, I refer you to Mrs. H. B — .. 
 
 ** I am, dear Sir, &c. &c." 
 
 * Some apology may perhaps be required from the Editor, 
 for not omitting the little tribute of filial afFciflion, which 
 ^rs. S — had inserted in a letter written to a friend oi both 
 families. To those who have equal reason to be proud 0/ 
 their parents, the writer of this note ventures to appeal on- 
 this occasion ; and by them she hopes to be forgiven. In 
 her answer to this letter, Miss S — says, « Your inscription 
 on the stone pleases me exceedingly. The words are ia 
 cixry sense appropriate. No one could witness the latter 
 days of that holy Ufe, without feehog a perfeft conviftion 
 of their truth.'*
 
 [ 183 ] 
 
 LETTER III. 
 Mrs. S TO the Rev. Dr. R . 
 
 " Dear Sir, 
 
 '* In compliance with youi request, I will now 
 endeavour to trace the progress of the fatal disease 
 which deprived me of my beloved child, to the last 
 closing scene. In the summer of the year 1805, 
 Elizabeth was seized with a cold, which terminated 
 in her death ; and I wish the cause was more gene- 
 rally known, as a caution to those whose studious 
 turn of mind may lead them into the same error, 
 I will give the account as she herself related it, a 
 very short time before she died, to a faithful and 
 affectionate servant, who first came into the family 
 when my daughter was only six weeks old, 
 
 * One very hot evening in July, I took a book, 
 and walked about two miles from home, where I 
 seated myself on a stone beside the lake. Being 
 much engaged by a poem I was reading, I did not 
 perceive that the sun was gone down, and was suc- 
 ceeded by a very heavy dew 5 till in a moment I felt
 
 [ 184 ] 
 
 Struck on the chest as if with a sharp knife. I re- 
 turned home, but said nothing of the pain. The 
 next day being also very hot, and every one busy in 
 the hay-field, I thought 1 would take a rake, and 
 work very hard, to produce perspiration, in the hope 
 that it might remove the pain, but it did not.' 
 
 ** From that time a bad cough, with occasional 
 loss of voice, gave me great apprehension of what 
 might be the consequence if the cause were not re» 
 moved; but no intreatics could prevail on her to take 
 the proper remedies, or to refrain from her usual 
 walks. This she persisted in, being sometimes better, 
 and then a little worse, till the beginning of October. 
 I had long been engaged to spend the winter with a 
 most dear and interesting friend at Bath, and my 
 three daughters had accepted a kind invitation to 
 spend that time at Sunbury, Elizabeth had, previ- 
 ous to her illness, offered to accompany me to Bath, 
 in order first to make a visit to Mr. and Mrs. C — , in 
 the hope that she might possibly beguile sjme of the 
 painful hours, which that worthy man constantly, 
 though so patiently, endures j at least she thought 
 that she might afford some little comfort to Mrs. 
 C-^. To these friends we were bound, by every 
 tie of gratitude and affedion, to offer every conso-
 
 [ JS5 ] 
 
 latlon in our jiowcr. Their hearts were ever open 
 to our griefs; their house always afforded shelter 
 and prote6iion from the various evils which assailed 
 us. To ray third son they have proved themselves, 
 if possible, 7/Jore than parents. 
 
 '' A few days before we were to set out from 
 
 C 5 my daughter became so rapidly worse, that 
 
 I doubted the possibility of her bearing the journey; 
 at the same time I was most anxious to remove her 
 to a milder climate, and within reach of medical 
 assistance. When we reached Kendal, 1 insisted 
 on taking the advice of a physician, as to the pro- 
 priety of continuing our journey, and I received his 
 directions for proceeding as fast as she could bear 
 without inconvenience ; her pulse, he said, indicated 
 considerable inflammation, and a warmer climate 
 would be very desirable. She bore travelling much 
 better than I could have expelled, making no com- 
 plaint, but of pain in her legs, till we reached Glou- 
 cester, when I was astonished to find that she had lost 
 all use of them. The next morning her voice too was 
 gone; and in this sad state, unable to speak or to 
 stand, she was carried to the house of our beloved 
 friend in P street. From this deplorable con- 
 dition she was soon relieved by the skill and atten-
 
 [ 1S6 ] 
 
 tion of Dr. G , and we had sanguine expec- 
 
 talions of her being restored to health. As soon as 
 she had recovered the power of walking, she was 
 
 removed to S Place j but instead ot a comfort, 
 
 she became an additional cause of anxiety to Mr. 
 and Mrs. C — . Friends less tenderly attentive, or 
 kss uniformly attached, would have shrunk from 
 the charge of receiving her, instead of pressing th« 
 performance of her promise. I saw her daily, and 
 had the joy of seeing her gradually amend. After 
 
 continuing six weeks in S Place, she was anxious 
 
 to see her beloved sister before her marriage; and 
 with Dr. G — 's approbation she accompanied me 
 to Sunbury. Her delicate state of health was well 
 known to Sir J. L — , but he most kindly urged her 
 removal to his house, thinking that the society of 
 her sisters, and the change of air, might be bene- 
 ficial. In this conje6lure he was right, and I left 
 her, at the end of ten days, much better; although 
 the marriage of her sister had greatly agitated her 
 spirits, as occasioning a separation from the favourite 
 of her heart. 
 
 *' I returned to the friend whom I had left ill at 
 Bath, and continued to receive the most flattering 
 accounts of Elizabeth's health, not only from herself.
 
 C 187 ] 
 
 but from many who observed the delightful change. 
 In one of my letters to her, I asked if she thought she 
 should be better in any other place, or if she could 
 point out any situation in which she would feel herself 
 more comfortable. In her answer she said, ' I know 
 no place in which I can be better, or any that 1 should 
 like half so well. The kindness and attention of Sir 
 J, and Lady L — cannot be exceeded. I am left at 
 perfect liberty to do as I like, and you know how 
 pleasant it is to me to listen to the conversation of 
 two or three very sensible men, without being obliged 
 
 to take any part in it,' On the 6th of March my 
 
 beloved friend Lady expired. A few days 
 
 before that event I had a letter from my daughter, 
 to tell me that as she had some symptoms of re- 
 turning inflammation, she had' been bled, but more 
 as a preventive, than from any necessity. On the 
 23d I arrived at Sunbury, just as she was going out 
 in a carriage with Lady L — . I had indulged the 
 pleasing expectation of seeing her materially better, 
 and was therefore thunderstruck at the first sight of 
 her, for I instantly thought I discovered confirmed 
 decline in her countenance. On my expressing to 
 my friends my surprise, they told me she had been 
 greatly better, that the change I perceived had only
 
 [ i^s ] 
 
 taken place a few days before, and might be ascribed 
 to the long continuance of a cold east wind. I 
 wrote tjie next day to Dr. B — , and fixed a time for 
 meetinor him in London. After seeingr her, the 
 Do(5lor candidly told me it was a very bad case; that 
 he would try a medicine which sometimes had 
 proved very beneficial, but owned that he had little 
 expe6lation of its succeeding with her, and desired 
 to see her again in ten days, which he accordingly 
 did. He then said he would not trouble her with 
 more medicine; and on my entreating him to tell 
 me exaftly what plan he would wish to be pursued, 
 without at all considering vij/ situation ; he re- 
 plied, " In the month of May she may go where 
 she likes, but early in September you had better go 
 to Flushing in Cornwall; unless she should be very 
 much better than I own I cxpe£l, and in that case 
 I would reconmiend your going to the Madeiras ; 
 but to send you there, with my present opinion of 
 the case, would only be aggravating your sorrow, by 
 removing you from your country and your friends." 
 To Clifton, Elizabeth always expressed a particular 
 dislike, saying that she was sure the want of shade 
 would kill her; and as she shewed a decided pre- 
 ference to C , it \\as determined that we should
 
 [ 1S9 ] 
 
 go thither. Sir J. L — would not suffer us to 
 depart till the weather became perfe6lly mild ; in- 
 deed I must ever gratefully remember his uncom- 
 monly friendly attention. Though a constant in- 
 valid and sufferer himself, scarcely a day past, 
 without his suggesting something likely to contri- 
 bute to my daughter's ease and comfort; nor was 
 Lady L — less constant in her kind attentions. 
 
 " On the 6th of May we quitted the hospitable 
 mansion of our friends at Sunbury, where my daugh- 
 ters had passed five months. Matlock water had been 
 recommended by some people, and with Dr. B — 's 
 approbation we determined to make some stay there* 
 At that place Elizabeth saw her father, after an 
 absence of many months. The pleasure of meeting 
 him, the novelty of the scene, and the remarkable 
 fineness of the weather, seemed to give her in- 
 creased strength and spirits; and the day after our 
 arrival she walked so far, that I confessed myself 
 tired, but this apparent amendment was soon over, 
 and she relapsed into her former languid state, 
 unable to walk to any distance, and only riding a 
 little way, while some one walked beside her. We 
 remained at Matlock near three weeks, but not per- 
 ceiving that she gained any benefit, we set off for
 
 [ 190 ] 
 
 C . Travelling always seemed to acrree with 
 
 her, and on her arrival at her favourite spot, I agair» 
 perceived an alteration for the better, but it was 
 only for a few days. I had a tent pitched as near 
 the house as I could, in which she sat the chief part 
 of the day. When the weather permitted, she wenl 
 out In an open carriage, and however languid she 
 appeared, still the grandeur of the scenery never 
 failed to call forth her admiration. One dav, when 
 we were sitting in the tent, and talking of the sur- 
 rounding beauties, she asked me if that would not 
 be a good situation for our new cottage.* 1 agreed 
 that it would, but added, " I can determine on 
 nothing, till I see how the next winter in Cornwall 
 agrees with you. Should your health be better there, 
 ■we shall certainly sell this place, and settle in the 
 south." She answered with more than usual quick- 
 ness, * If I cannot live here, I am sure I can no» 
 where else.* This was the only thing she ever saiJ 
 to 7iie which implied an expeftatiou of approaching 
 death. I understand that she wrote to some of her 
 friends on the subject, and I find a letter from 
 Mrs. H. B — , which evidently alludes to something 
 
 * A cottage is now built on the beautiful spot, pointed 
 o-'t by Miss S — .
 
 [ 191 ] 
 
 Elizabeth had written to her respecting her illness, 
 for in it she says, ' You have long had a worse 
 opinion of your state of health than I hope it de- 
 serves; but much attention is and niill be necessary, 
 and I depend on your promise of taking care of your- 
 self. I felt little doubt that you v/ere ready to leave 
 a world, in which as yet you have not had much 
 enjoyment, for one that is much better suited to such 
 a mind as yours; but we cannot spare you yet. 
 You will, I hope, find much to interest you in life; 
 and though I may not live to see it, you may, same 
 time or other, be surrounded with blessings, which 
 
 may make amends for all past sorrows.'* la 
 
 another letter from the same friend, dated July 
 16^ 1806, she says, ' When we ask to be relieved 
 from our sufferings, we ask what our Heavenly 
 Father often in mercy denies; but when we ask to 
 be supported under them, we ask what we shall 
 certainly obtain. May you experience this, dear 
 child of my heart, under every trial; and may those 
 
 who love you as I do, experience it too.' No 
 
 other part of this letter was preserved, which I the 
 
 * Thi<5 written at a very early period of Miss S — 's 
 illness; and when ^11 her friends, except her mother, had 
 hopes of her recovery.
 
 [ 192 ] 
 
 more regret, as I have since learnt that it was in 
 answer to one which Elizabeth had written to 
 prepare her friend for the event which soon after- 
 wards took place. Her total silence to me, I 
 fear, may be ascribed to her perceiving, in spite 
 of all my endeavours to conceal it, that I had long 
 been too apprehensive of her real state. No 
 one seemed to think her so ill as I did. Indeed, 
 the change was so gradual, that it was only by 
 a comparison wilh the preceding week, that we 
 were sensible of her having lost strength in the last. 
 It was not till the Monday before her death that any 
 material alteration appeared, and I know you are 
 already informed, by a letter which I wrote to our 
 mutual friend, of what passed during the last three 
 days of her painful existence. 
 
 *' I have now, my dear sir, complied with your 
 request, with regard to my beloved daughter. Per- 
 haps my desire of fulfilling your wish, may have led 
 me into a tedious detail of little matters; and it is 
 more than probable that the havoc which time and 
 sorrow have made in my mind, may have occa- 
 sioned my omitting some things of more import- 
 ance. I do not attempt to draw any charafter of 
 this inestimable being, because it was well known
 
 C 195 3 
 
 and understood by you ; and the conduSl of her 
 whole life speaks much more in her praise, than 
 could be expressed even by the partial pen of a 
 mother. 
 
 " r am, &c. Sec." 
 
 LEITER IV. 
 
 From Mrs. S— to mrs. H. B— . 
 
 " August, 1800*. 
 '^ Thank God, I can now with some com- 
 posure sit down to thank my best and dearest 
 friend for all her kind letters j but after such a 
 loss, we must have time to weep, and time to dry 
 our tears, before we can either receive or bestow 
 comfort. My neighbours have been kindly at- 
 tentive to me, offering to come here, and begging 
 me to go to themj but I have answered, that home 
 and perfe6l quiet are all I can enjoy at present. 
 God bless dear Mrs. D — , for her kind enquiry of 
 who would comfort me. She knows how to admi- 
 nister comfort, even when she most needs it herself, 
 o
 
 [ 194 ] 
 
 This I have experienced from her, and ever grate- 
 fully shall I feel it. But God has comforted me, 
 and the gratifying conviftion that my angel is for 
 ever happy, with the consciousness of having to the 
 best of my abilities fulfilled my duty towards her, 
 are consolations which I would not exchange for 
 this world's weath. 
 
 '' I shall have a melancholy pleasure in comply- 
 ing with your request, and will begin where my last 
 
 letter ended. T slept in a room only separated 
 
 from my beloved child by a wooden partition, and 
 so close to her bed that she could hear her breathe. 
 On Wednesday morning T • told me she was 
 much the same, though the sweet sufferer herself 
 said she was better. I went to her, as usual, the 
 moment I was out of bed, and was struck with the 
 change in her countenance. On feeling her pulse, I 
 was persuaded she could not continue long. She told 
 me she was better, and would get up. She did so, 
 and was cheerful when she spoke, though it evi- 
 dently increased her pain, and difficulty of breathing. 
 When she coughed or moved, she seemed to be in 
 agony. She took nourishment as usual, and on my 
 asking what book I should read to her, she men- 
 tioned Thomson's Seasons. I read Winter. She
 
 [ 195 ] 
 
 made many observations, and entered entirely into 
 the subjeft. About three o'clock Mrs. — called, 
 having come with a party to see the Lake. Eliza* 
 beth said she should like to see her. Before she 
 went up stairs, I requested she would feel the pulse, 
 which I was persuaded indicated the termination of 
 her sufferings before many hours. She entered 
 
 into conversation cheerfully. Mrs. told me 
 
 that she thought I was mistaken^ that her pulse 
 were not those of a dying person, and she was of 
 opinion that she might last some time. So much 
 were all deceived, who did not watch every turn of 
 her countenance as I did ! The apothecary came 
 afterwards. He thought her in great danger, but 
 could not say whether immediate, or not. At nine 
 she went to bed. I resolved to quit her no more, 
 
 and went to prepare for the night. T came to 
 
 say that Elizabeth entreated I would not think of 
 staying in her roomj and added, ' she cannot bear 
 you should do it, for she says you are yourselfunwell, 
 and rest is necessary for you.' Think of her sweet 
 attention! I replied, " on that one subject lam 
 resolved; no power on earth shall keep me from her; 
 so go to bed yourself." Accordingly I returned to 
 her room, and at ten gave her the usual dose of 
 O 2
 
 [ 196 ] 
 
 laudanum. After a little time she fell into a dose, 
 and I thought slept till past one. She then took 
 some mint-tea. Her breath was very bad, and 
 she was uneasy and restless, but never complained ; 
 and on my wiping the cold sweat off her face, and 
 bathing it with camphorated vinegar, which I did 
 very often in the course of the night, she thanked 
 me, smiled, and said, ' that is the greatest comfort 
 I have.' She slept again for a short time, and at 
 half past four asked for some chicken-broth, which 
 she took perfe6lly well. On being told the hour, 
 6he said, 'how long this night is!' She continued 
 very uneasy, and in half an hour after, on my enqult. 
 ring if I could move the pillow, or do any thing to 
 relieve her, she replied, ' there is nothing for it but 
 iquietj' I said no more, but thinking that she was 
 
 dying, I sat on the bed watching her. At six she 
 
 said, ' I must get up, and have some mint-tea ;' I 
 then called for T — , and felt my angels* pulsej they 
 were fluttering, and I knew I should soon lose her. 
 iShe took the tea well ; T — began to put on her 
 clothes, and was proceeding to dress her, when she 
 laid her head on the faithful creature's shoulder, be- 
 came convulsed in the face, spoke not, looked not, 
 and in ten minutes expired.
 
 [ 197 J 
 
 ** It did not appear that she thought her end was so^ 
 very near; for only two days before, she told T-— ^ 
 the chaise was finished, and she should speak to me- 
 to have it home, for it would be better to go an 
 airing in it, before we set out on thejourney. I did 
 i)Ot tell her my opinion of her state, because I might, 
 be mistaken, and I believed that her whole life bad 
 been one state of preparation for the awful change. 
 Every paper I have found confirms this gratifying' 
 idea. On reflection, I have every thing to reconcile, 
 me to her loss, but my own selfish feelings ; and 
 having witnessed the sufferings of Jiupianity. ji? ^ 
 beloved child, - ,. , , 
 
 ** Though raised above 
 " The reach of human pain, above the flight 
 « Of human joys ; — yet with a mingled ray 
 " Of sadly pleas'd remembrance, must I feel 
 *' A mother's love, a mother's tender woe!" 
 
 '^ Be easy, my dearest friend, on the subjeft of 
 my health; it is as good as usual, and I wonder 
 myself at the state of my mind. I believe the 
 overlooking my Elizabeth's papers has administered 
 more comfort to me than I could have received from 
 any other source; for every line has strengthened my
 
 [ 198 ] 
 
 conviction that the dear writer of them must be 
 happy. I regret her having destroyed many papers 
 lately. Those remaining are chiefly religious and 
 moral reflexions, translations from the Bible, &c. I 
 wish to send them to you, with some little trifle of 
 her property for each of her dearest friends. You 
 will value them as having been hers, and excuse the 
 dotage of a parent who wishes her friends to re- 
 member the treasure she once possessed. Tell me 
 that you and all whom I tenderly love are better. 
 I need not name them. I have a thousand things to 
 say to you, but it cannot be now, God for ever bless 
 you, my dearest friend ! Thank all those who so 
 kindly feel for me." 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 " September 1 . 
 *' Mr. A — very kindly desires me to set oflfdi- 
 reftly for Edinburgh, thinking it necessary I should 
 immediately quit a place in which I have suflTered so 
 muchj and I have a very kind letter from K — , 
 which I have answered by saying that it is my in- 
 tention to be with them on the 26th. I have also a 
 most friendly invitation from Mrs. R — j two or 
 three of my neighbours have kindly made the same
 
 [ 199 3 
 
 offer; but at present I like no place but this. I Jove 
 to look at the seat on which my angel sat, at the bed 
 on which she lay; in short nothing consoles me but 
 what reminds me of her. It is a sorrow which is 
 soothing to my mind, and raises it above the petty 
 griefs to which I have too often given way. Nature 
 never bestowed on me her talents; habit never gave 
 me the same application ; but my beloved child has 
 left me an example which I should glory in following, 
 and I pray God that I may enabled to do so ! 
 
 *^ I had promised Mr. and Mrs. G — , that the first 
 visit I made should be to them, provided they would 
 assure me that I should see no one else. Whilst I 
 was there, Mrs. G. was called out to a lady who was 
 goingon diredly, and whohad with her Mr. and Mrs. 
 G— C — ; I begged to see her ; but this unexpected 
 meeting overset all my firmness, and she observed 
 that she had never seen me so cut down before. I 
 answered that I had never before lost so much. 
 *No,' said she, * nor any other human being.' You 
 may imagine how grateful these words were to my 
 heart. The dear woman stayed only a few minutes, 
 and is gone to Edinburgh, where she will see our 
 beloved K — . I have blotted my paper, but yon, 
 will excuse it,"
 
 L 200 ] 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 " September 8. 
 '' On the 5th T dispatched a little box for you. It 
 (;9ntains all the papers, a small parcel, &c. You 
 will observe in one of the memorandum-books a 
 few words respecting the expenditure of the legacy 
 Ipft tier by yoyr excellent mptherj^ which I am sure 
 will please you.* I think I did knon? your saipted 
 parent; and doing so, I felt a reverence and affeClion, 
 for her little short of yours. When I consider her 
 unvaried a,ffc6lioii for me, I fear I am tempted to 
 think better of myself than I ought. 
 
 " B — 's sudden removal from this country has 
 sensibly affedled me, because I feel persuaded that I 
 must not expe(3: to see him more.f If it please God 
 to preserve his life, it will probably be years before 
 he returns; and (like you) I do not look far in this 
 world, nor dare I look forward to any pleasing event. 
 In five short months I witnessed two sad scenes of 
 death, and the impression each made on my mind 
 can never be effaced. 
 
 * ' Account of a legacy left me by that excellent and 
 ever-honoured Mrs. B — . May I fpend every sixpence as she 
 would advise me to do, if she were present!' 
 
 f The third son of Mrs. S — , who was then ordered 
 to join the expedition under General Crawfiird.
 
 [ 201 ] 
 
 " I can now again attend my own parish church,, 
 and I cannot tell you how gratifying it is to me^ — I 
 seem to meet my- beloved Elizabeth every Sunday. 
 This idea occasions sensations that T would not ex- 
 change for any earthly treasure. They are not such 
 as depress my spirits; quite otherwise. They excite 
 my hope, increase my piety, and strengthen me to 
 meet the trials of the ensuing week. Indeed I feel 
 that she is dearer tome every day." 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 « From Mrs. G To Mrs. H. B— . 
 
 " September 9, I8O6. 
 *' Feeling as I know you do for your beloved 
 
 friend at C , I think it will be a comfort to hear 
 
 from one who has had much intimate conversation 
 with her since the sad loss she has sustained. It is 
 true that to you she has opened her whole heart, and 
 you know all that passes there better than I can tell 
 you; but it wdll interest you to hear of her looks 
 and deportment from a friend who has seen her 
 frequently, and who feels for her most sincerely. 
 
 Yesterday evening we returned from C , after 
 
 passing two days there. Her firmness, her colled-
 
 [ 202 ] 
 
 cd mind; exceeds any thing I have seen, because 
 I trace through it feelings the most acute. 
 
 ** The instant we heard of what had happened, 
 Mr. G — , impressed by the idea of her receiving 
 the blow in a state of solitude, was inclined to go 
 diretlly, but I convinced him that it was better to 
 write first. I soon had a few lines which afforded 
 all the satisfa£lion we could expeiSl to receive; quiet, 
 she said, was at first absolutely necessary, but it 
 would be a comfort to see us when she could sup- 
 port the meeting. A worthy Clergyman afforded 
 all necessary assistance, and to him she gave di- 
 re6lions as to all that was to be done. The last 
 solemn ceremony took place early in the morning, 
 and was conduced with perfeA simplicity. It was 
 over before we heard of it, otherwise Mr. G — and 
 I should have been tempted, through respetl for the 
 living ixnd the dead, to have attended. On Mr. G — *s 
 account, however, I believe it was better omitted, 
 though he says it would have been a satisfaction; 
 but it might have been too much for his nerves, 
 for they were so much affcfted by his first visit to 
 
 C , that it was several days before he recovered. 
 
 Indeed it was an affefting visit. On that day three 
 weeks we had seen your dear girl sitting under the
 
 [ 203 ] 
 
 same tent in a field overlooking the Lake, accom- 
 panied by her Father, Mother, and Sister; now we 
 found her place empty, her Mother and Sister alone. 
 It was not very long before Mrs. S — had the reso- 
 lution to speak of her. She sought and found the 
 highest consolation in dwelling on her virtues, and 
 on the proofs she had found in the writings she left 
 behind, that she was well prepared to quit this 
 world. Mrs. S — afterwards read to us the most 
 kindly sympathising letter from T — W — that ever 
 was written on such an occasion, with some verses 
 to the memory of his favourite, so chara6leristic, 
 and coming so truly from the heart, that neither 
 Mr. G — nor I could restrain our tears. Mr. G — ■ 
 rejoices in having fitted up that shew-box for you, 
 and means to do an appropriate moon-light for it." 
 
 LETTER VIIL 
 *' From Mrs. G— To Mrs. H. B— . 
 
 '^ Mr. G — has been trying to do his promised 
 moon-light in a way that may do some justice to 
 his regard for you, and to the memory of the inte- 
 resting person to whom it alludes, but he bids me 
 tell you that, when most anxious to do his best, he 
 seldom can please him self. He trusts liowever that
 
 [ 204 ] 
 
 you will be in some degree gratified by this token 
 of his regard to you, and to the memory of one so 
 justly dear to you, and so aflectionately valued by 
 himself. He applied to me for some lines to write 
 on the space he has left at the bottom of the frame, 
 and was pleased with my suggestion of selcAing a 
 couplet from the verses written by T — W — . 
 They came pure from the heart of one who truly 
 appreciated her character, and tenderly lamented 
 her loss." &.C.* 
 
 I will here add the letter and poem mentioned by 
 Mrs. G — . The author, T — W — , a Quaker, is 
 well known, and universally respefted in the coun- 
 try where he resides; and Mrs. S — says of him, 
 
 * With this letter I received a beautiful landscape, with 
 an urn sacred to the memory of my beloved friend, which is 
 placed with her transparencies. This pifture was one of 
 the last efforts of Mr. G — 's elegant pencil. That inge* 
 uious, amiable, and most excellent man, died on the 10th 
 of June, 1807. The lines to which Mrs. G — alludes are 
 now indeed peculiarly appropriate, and they are placed on 
 the pi<5ture: 
 
 ** Long shall my care these sweet memorials savej 
 " The hand that traced them rests within the grave!"
 
 [ 205 ] 
 
 *■' He is one of the very few people who really kneviT 
 my daughter, and he felt for her charader that es- 
 teem which the wise and good ever entertain for 
 each other." Miss S — had much pleasure in 
 his society and correspondence, and he sometimes 
 attended her and her sisters in their long walks 
 simonffst the mountains. 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 «To Mrs. S— . 
 
 *' My dear Friend, 
 " Will it be an intrusion on the sacredness of 
 thy sorrow, thus to address thee? I have heard of 
 thy loss, and can truly say I sympathize therein. 
 I have awoke in tears in the night, to meditate on 
 the afletSling event; and the thoughts of my friend, 
 and precious daughter, are frequently my compani- 
 ons by day. Many are now my recolle^lions of dear 
 Elizabeth; her sweet and serious countenance is 
 often so vivid in my remembrance, that I sometimes 
 can hardly think I shall see her no more. How un- 
 searchable are the ways of the Almighty! He 
 frequently sele6ts the wisest and the best for him-
 
 [ 206 ] 
 
 self, whilst '' the world lying in wickedness" seems 
 to want their example and reproof, and the virtuous 
 and drooping Christian their encouragement and 
 support. Yet we are not to question his ways ; for 
 surely they are in wisdom, though that wisdom we 
 cannot comprehend. Never let us forget, my friend, 
 that this is a state of trial. Affli6lion and trial will 
 terminate in the grave, and if we are faithful to the 
 last, we shall rise in happiness. I have had no parti- 
 culars of the trying event; when thou hast strength 
 to write, it would be desirable to know how thou 
 and J — are, and whether thy husband, or any 
 
 branch of the family, were at C during the 
 
 solemn scene? Thy lot has often been to bear the 
 heaviest part of the burthen, I shall devote the 
 rest of my paper to a little memorial of its kind to 
 thy valued daughter. 
 
 " Farewell! With true esteem and affection, I 
 remain thy sincere and sympathising friend, 
 
 « T. W." 
 
 LINES ENCLOSED. 
 
 *• HOW daik this river, murmuring on its way; 
 This wood how solemn, at the close of day! 
 What clouds come on, what shades of evening fall. 
 Till one vast veil of sadness covers all !—
 
 C 207 ] 
 
 Then why alone thus lingering do I roam, 
 Heedless of clouds, of darkness, and of home?-— 
 Well may I linger in this twilight gloom 
 Alone, and sad — Eliza's in her tomb! 
 She who so late, by kindred taste ally'd, 
 Paced this lone path, conversing at my side; 
 The wildering path 'twas her delight to prove. 
 Through the green valley, or the cooling gi-ove. 
 
 *< Can I forget, on many a summer's day. 
 How through the woods and lanes we wont to stray; 
 How cross the moors, and up the hills to wind. 
 And leave the fields and sinking vales behind: 
 How arduous o'er the mountain steeps to go. 
 And look by turns on all the plains below; 
 How scal'd th' aerial cliffs th* adven'trous maid. 
 Whilst, far beneath, her foil'd companion staid? 
 
 *' Yet whilst to her sublimest scenes arise. 
 Of mountains pil'd on mountains to the skies, 
 The intelledual world still claim'd her care- 
 There she would range, amid the wise and fair, 
 Untutor'd range ; — her penetrating mind 
 Left the dull track of school-research behind; 
 Rush'd on, and seiz'd the funds of Eastern lore, 
 Arabia, Persia, adding to her store. 
 
 ** Yet unobtrusive, serious, and meek. 
 The first to listen, and the last to speak; 
 Though rich in intelleifl:, her powers of thought 
 la youth's prime season no distinction sought;
 
 [ 208 ] 
 
 But ever prompt at duty'^ sacred call, 
 She oft in silence left the social hall, 
 To trace the cots and villages around, 
 1^0 cot too mean, where misery might be found: 
 How have I seen her at the humblest shed. 
 Bearing refreshment to the sick man's bed; 
 His drooping spirits cheer'd — she from his door 
 Retum'd, am'id the blessings of the poor ! 
 
 " Oh, lost Eliza ! dear, ingenuous maid, 
 While low in earth thy cold remains are laid. 
 Thy genuine friendship, thy attentions kind, 
 Rise like a vision on my pensive mind; 
 Thy love of truth, thy readiness to please. 
 Thy sweet, refm'd simplicity and ease, 
 Enhanc'd the favours of ingenious art. 
 And made thy gifts pass onward to the heart: 
 These beauteous tints,* these peaceful scenes I view, 
 Thy taste design'd, and ready friendship drew ; 
 Long shall my care the sv/eet memorials save — 
 The hand that trac'd them rests within the grave! 
 
 *' Lamented maiden ! pensive and alone, 
 While sorrowing friendship pours her tender moan. 
 Sad memory sees thee, at our parting hour. 
 Pale, weak, yet lovely as a drooping flower. 
 Which sheds its leaves on autumn's sickly bed ;— - 
 Thou from thy pillow rais'd thy peaceful head ; 
 
 * " Her drawings iu a rustic building beside the river Emont.*
 
 [ 209 ] 
 
 To me thou held'st thy feeble hand — it bore 
 Naambannaf dying on his native shore; 
 Like his, RcHgion's holy truths, address'd 
 To thy young mind, were treasur'd in thy breast ; 
 Like his, we saw thy early blossoms wave ; 
 Now see the Virtues weeping o'er thy grave !'* 
 
 The last manuscript with which I was favoured by 
 Dr. Mumssen arrived too late j and when I wrote to 
 thank him for it, I mentioned the irreparable loss 
 I had sustained, and spoke of ray lamented friend 
 in the following words ; which drew from him an 
 answer so gratifying to my feelings, that I hope I 
 may be pardoned for inserting it. My letter con- 
 tains a very imperfect sketch of Miss S — 's charac- 
 ter, but it is drawn with truth. 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 Extract from a Letter from Mrs, H, B-" 
 to Dr. Mumsse?i. 
 
 *' September 1806. 
 " The lovely young creature on whose account 
 I first applied to you, had been for above a year 
 
 f An afFedbing account of the pious African, Henry Granville 
 Naambanna, which she gave the author, as he took his last leave of 
 ber a short time before her death.
 
 C 210 ] 
 
 gradually declining, and on the 7t.h of August she 
 resigned her pure spirit to God who gave it. Her 
 charafter was so extraordinary, and she was so very 
 dear to me, that I hope you will forgive my dwelling 
 a little longer on my irreparable loss. Her person 
 and manners were extremely pleasing, with a pen- 
 sive softness of countenance that indicated deep 
 refleiSlion; but her extreme timidity concealed the 
 most extraordinary talents that ever fell under my 
 observation. With scarcely any assistance, she 
 taught herself the French, Italian, Spanish, Ger- 
 man, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew languages. She 
 had no inconsiderable knowledge of Arabic and 
 Persic. She was well acquainted with Geometry* 
 Algebra, and other branches of the Mathematics. 
 She was a very fine musician. She drew land- 
 scapes from nature extremely well, and was a mis- 
 tress of perspe£live. She shewed an early taste for 
 poetry, of which some specimens remain ; but I 
 believe she destroyed most of the effusions of her 
 youthful muse, when an acquaintance with your 
 great poet, and still more when the sublime com- 
 positions of the Hebrew bards, gave a different turn 
 to her thoughts. With all these acquirements she 
 was perfectly feminine in her disposition j elegant.
 
 [ 211 ] 
 
 modest, gentle, and affeftionate ; nothing was ne- 
 
 gle6led, which a woman ought to know; no duty 
 
 was omitted, which her situation in life required her 
 
 to perform. But the part of her character on which 
 
 I dwell with the greatest satisfaction, is that exalted 
 
 piety, which seemed always to raise her above this 
 
 world, and taught her, at sixteen years of age, to 
 
 resign its riches and its pleasures almost without 
 
 regret, and to support with dignity a very unexpeCled 
 
 change of situation. For some years before her 
 
 death the Holy Scripture was her principal study, 
 
 and she translated from the Hebrew the whole book 
 
 of Job, &c. &c. How far she succeeded in this 
 
 attempt I am not qualified tojudge ; but the benefit 
 
 which she herself derived from these studies must 
 
 be evident to those who witnessed the patience and 
 
 resignation with which she supported a long and 
 
 painful illness, the sweet attention which she always 
 
 shewed to the feelings of her parents and friends, 
 
 and the heavenly composure with which she looked 
 
 forward to the awful change which has- now removed 
 
 her to a world, ' where (as one of her friends 
 
 observes) her gentle, pure, and enlightened spirit 
 
 will find itself more at home than in this land of 
 
 shadows.' &c. Sec. 
 
 p 2
 
 C 212 ] 
 
 LETTER Xr. 
 Dr. Mumssen, in reply. 
 
 " Altona, Oct. 3, 1S06. : 
 '^ Let me very heartily sympathise with you, 
 dear Madam, in your sorrow. The loss you have 
 suffered is great, is irrecoverable in this world. The 
 account you gave me of the extraordinary chara6ler 
 of your late angelic friend, has filled my breast with 
 admiration and awe. I have read your letter with 
 tears. So many accomplishments, natural and 
 moralj so much of science, erudition, and eminence 
 of rare talents, combined with grace, with gentle- 
 ness, and all the virtues that adorn a female mind ! 
 It is wonderful, and cannot be enough admired. 
 Great, indeed, must have been your happiness in 
 
 the possession of this treasure. Alas ! the gentle 
 
 spirit that moved her tender limbs is soon divested 
 of its mortal garment, and gone to join its kindred 
 angels ! 
 
 "" < Vattene in pace, Alma beata e Bella!' 
 
 But I think her happy in this our period; for what 
 can be more fortunate on earth than to fall into the 
 hands of the virtuous, and free from conta6l of a 
 corrupted race, to make her passage over our un-
 
 [ 213 ] 
 
 lucky planet pure and immaculate, and with the 
 robe of innocence appear before her Creator? To 
 taste all the sweets of science and art, and havinsr 
 satisfied all honest desires, remove from the feast of 
 life with gratitude. * 'Tis a consummation de- 
 voutly to be wished I' 
 
 . '' Your being deprived of such a hand, I fear, 
 will put a stop to your honourable project; yet I will 
 hope that somebody will be found to assist you in 
 reducing and sifting the materials you have colle6led. 
 ** Pray tell me the name of your late young friend, 
 that I may honour her memory. Such radiant 
 flames seldom descend to inhabit terrestrial forms. 
 " With true esteem and affe6lion, 1 am, &c. 
 
 i:etter xit. 
 
 From the Rev. Dr. R — to Mrs. S — . 
 
 '* I HAVE to thank you, my dear Pvlrs. S — , for 
 your very interesting manuscript. To those who 
 once shared the friendship of your excellent daugh- 
 ter, the most trilling incidents of her life are now 
 become valuable records ; and scenes of childhood,
 
 [ 211 j 
 
 when connecled with the expansive powers of 
 genius, cease to be insignificantj as the smallest rill 
 assumes an importance from being contemplated as 
 the source of a great and majestic river. Let me 
 however confess, that without a more powerful 
 motive for my request, than the one you so justly 
 assign to me, I should have spared you the sad 
 remembrance of the days of infantine occupations ; 
 and judging of the culture by the produce, have 
 given due credit to your system of education, nor 
 felt any inclination to pry further into the secrets of 
 a mother's care. 
 
 ** But the plant you had the happiness to rear in 
 the moral garden of life, (though, alas! of short 
 duration,) exhibited such a luxuriant fertility, and a 
 vigour of shoot so far exceeding the ordinary growth 
 of intelle£l, that it seems a duty you owe to society 
 to mark the several points and stages of its advance- 
 ment to such early maturity. 
 
 ^^ I see you start at the proposal I am about to 
 make; but the papers now before me not only 
 serve to increase my admiration of your beloved 
 child, but convince me, the more I read them, that 
 she that is gone ought to live in universal remem- 
 brance ; that over such a grave grief should not be
 
 [ 215 ] 
 
 dumb.; and that the world, deprived by her death <^f, 
 one of its brightest ornaments, has a claim to every 
 memorial of her exalted worth and talents, to shew 
 the unthinking crow.'d vvhai may be done, and to hold 
 forth an example of what has been done, even in so 
 short a space of time, by fulfilling the duties of a- 
 Christian life, and the purposes of jational existence.. 
 ** Yqu know that I am no advocate, generally 
 speaking, for biographical sketches and memoirs. 
 The vanity of some of these communications might 
 well be spared, and the profligacy of others ought 
 not to be endured. But if the reflecting reader, 
 tired or disgusted with a mere series of adventures, 
 should prefer a narrative that ledthemind to thought, 
 to one that only filled it with wonder or amusementj 
 if he had rather follow Cowper to his study than a 
 general to the field, or a statesman to the cabinet; 
 to such a class of readers, I scruple not to say, you 
 have it in your power to offer a most captivating 
 publication. Every page I unfold fills me with fresh 
 astonishment ; and when I collect the evidence of 
 your daughter's attainments within the short period 
 of her earthly existence, when I combine the graces 
 of person, and the elegance of accomplishments, 
 with her more noble and higher distinctions of in-
 
 [ 2IG ] 
 
 telle6l, I seem to lose sight of what once adorned 
 society, and to be tracing a form of ideal perfe6lion. 
 *' Over every thing she touches she seems to 
 spread a new charm ; and whether she furnidies 
 materials from her own capacious mind, or draws 
 them from the stores of others, there is a choice and 
 arrangement which evinces the soundest judgment, 
 as well as the sweetest imacriuation. Her feelings 
 are exquisite, but never romantic; and in the flight 
 of her most excursive fancy, she keeps within the 
 bounds of truth and taste. In all that she invents 
 or describes, nothing is overcharged or unnatural. 
 Her pen, like her pencil, places every obje6l in the 
 most pleasing point of view; and the delicacy of her 
 thoughts is even heightened by the purity, I may 
 say piety, of the expressions in which they are con- 
 veyed. In her various translations from the Ger- 
 man, and other languages, most of which I have 
 compared with the difierent authors, she never 
 mistakes or weakens the spirit of the original.— 
 Klopstock, under her management, talks English as 
 well as his native tongue; and the warmest of his 
 admirers would rejoice to hear the facility and pre- 
 cision with which she has taught their favourite poet 
 and philosopher to converse amongst us. Of her
 
 C 217 1 
 
 Hebrew versions, of which I would not allow my- 
 self to be a competent judge, I can now speak in 
 the strongest terms of praise, from the testimony of 
 some of our best Hebrew scholars, to whom the 
 Book of Job has been more particularly submitted. 
 The opinion of this extraordinary produ6lion, trans- 
 mitted to me by a friend who ranks among the first 
 in this department of literature, I here subjoin. 
 
 * My dear Sir, 
 * T HAVK exceeded the time I had prescribed to 
 myself for sending you my report of the MS. of Job; 
 but I was desirous to form the best judgment I was 
 capable of, before I ventured on a final opinion. I 
 have now, however, most fully satisfied my mind 
 upon the subje6t j and I feel that I should do great 
 injustice to the work, if I did not pronounce it to be 
 an excellent translation. After a close scrutiny, and 
 a careful comparison with the original, it strikes me 
 as conveying more of the true character and mean- 
 ing of the Hebrew, with fewer departures from the 
 idiom of the English, than any other translation 
 whatever that we possess. It combines accuracy of 
 version with purity of style, and unites critical re« 
 
 Q.
 
 [ 218 ] 
 
 search with familiar exposition. From the received 
 translation it very seldom loviecessarily deviates, 
 which I consider to be a proof of the author's taste 
 and judgment J for, in general, the language of our 
 Englifli Bible is such as no one possessing these 
 would wish to alter. The corre6tion of error, and the 
 improvement of the sense, seem to be the only in- 
 ducements, and serve as the chief guides in every vari- 
 ation of phrase adopted in the version of your friend. 
 These variations are undoubtedly sometimes consi- 
 derable, but always ingenious, and generally well- 
 fouM'Ied, and never hazarded but with reasonable 
 colour, and manifestly after much investigation. 
 New readings and new significations are occasionally 
 introduced j and from the appearance of some of 
 these at the commencement of the work, I had at 
 first been led to entertain doubts as to the merit of 
 the translation; but upon farther acquaintance, and 
 a fuller review, I find them much less frequent and 
 less violent than (I am sorry to say) are to be met 
 with in most of our modern versions of the various 
 parts of the Old Testament. Conje£lural emenda- 
 tions of the text particularly are most sparingly in- 
 dulged in ; so that upon the whole, I cannot but re- 
 commend the publication of the entire version ; in
 
 [ 219 ] 
 
 the fullest confidence that it will be received as a 
 valuable present by the lovers of biblical literature.* 
 
 " Upon such proofs, I may venture to rest my 
 justification, if any be necessary, for earnestly re- 
 questing your permission to draw from the journal of 
 her improvement a simple narrative of your daugh- 
 ter's life. Many of the documents must necessarily 
 be omitted, but enough may be given to confirm 
 our estimate of her worth, and prove to the world 
 that it has not been raised beyond its due standard 
 by the partiality of her sorrowful and surviving 
 
 friends. If the dear companion of some of her 
 
 early studies might be prevailed on to undertakfe the 
 arrangement of the materials, (and I think our 
 solicitations to her for that purpose may not be in 
 vain,) your mind will be better reconciled to the 
 measure, and the world will be satisfied as to the 
 
 fidelity of the detail. Let us, I beseech you, 
 
 unite to accomplish this; and believe me, &c." 
 
 * Letter from the Rev. Dr. Magee, of Trinity college, 
 Dublin, author of Discourses on the Dodrine of the Atone- 
 ment. 
 
 FJNIS.
 
 T%e following WORKS, printed by R. Ckvttjvell^ Bath, may bt had 
 of the Publishers of this Volume, 
 
 SERMONS on the DOCTRINES and DUTIES of CHRISTIANITY. 
 8vo. 5s. The same Work in i2mo. 4s. 
 
 POEMS and ESSAYS, by the late MISS BOWDLER. Elegantly printed 
 in quarto, with a Portrait of the Author, il. is. 
 
 The same Work in Oftavo. 6s. 
 
 PRACTICAL OBSERVATIONS on the REVELATIONS of St. JOHN. 
 By the late MRS. BOWDLER. js. 
 
 The FAMILY SHAKESPEARE: containing Twenty of the moft ad- 
 mired Plays, in which ever>' objedlionablc part is expunged, without the 
 
 additionof a single line. il. los. 
 
 ESSAY on the HAPPINESS of the LIFE to COME. 4s. 
 
 HYMNS on various Subjects: extrafted from the Psalms. By the Author 
 
 of the Essay on Happiness. 4s. 
 
 LECTURES on ASTRONOMY and NATURAL PHILOSOPHY, for 
 
 the Ufe of Children. Designed to unite Sentiments of Religion with 
 the Study of Nature. 
 
 Printed by Richard Cruttwell, St. James's-Street, Bath. 
 
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