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From an

following Letter from Kingston. I insert it as a pleasing memorial of that peculiar tenderness of heart, which conspired with his most admirable talents, to render him the most interesting of men. ardent, and, I hope, a laudable desire to display this endearing characteristic of my friend, I shall add a collection of extracts from his Letters to me, rather more copious than I at first intended.




The Sun, at Kingston, Sept. 18, 1792.


With no sinister accident

to retard or terrify us, we find ourselves at a quarter before one, arrived safe at Kingston. I left you with a heavy heart, and with a heavy heart took leave of our dear Tom, at the bottom of the chalk-hill.

But soon after this last separation, my troubles gushed from my eyes, and then I was better.

We must now prepare for our visit to the Ge neral. · I add no more, therefore, than our dearest reyou and

membrances and prayers that God may

bless yours, snd reward you an hundred-fold for all your kindness. Tell Tom I shall always hold him dear for his affectionate attentions to Mrs. Unwin. From her heart the memory of him can never be erased. Johnny loves you all, and has his share in all these acknowledgments.


W. C.



Weston, Sept. 21, 1792.


Chaos himself, even the chaos of Milton, is not surrounded with more confusion, nor has a mind more completely in a hubbub than I experience at the present moment. At our first arrival, after long absence, we find a hundred orders to servants necessary, a thousand things to be restored to their proper places and an endless variety of minutiæ to be adjusted; which though individually of little importance, are most momentous-in the

aggregate. In these circumstances I find myself so indisposed to writing, that, save to yourself, I would on no account attempt it; but to you I will give such a recital as I can, of all that has passed since I sent you that short note from Kingston, knowing that if it be a perplexed recital, you will consider the cause, and pardon it. I will begin with a remark in which I am inclined to think you will agree with me, that there is sometimes more true heroism passing in a corner, and on occasions that make no noise in the world, than has often been exercised by those whom that world esteems her greatest heroes, and on occasions the most illustrious; I hope so at least; for all the heroism I have to boast, and all the opportunities I have of displaying any, are of a private nature. After writing the note I immediately began to prepare for my appointed visit to Ham; but the struggles that I had with my own spirit, labouring as I did under the most dreadful dejection, are never to be told. I would have given the world to have been excused. I went, however, and carried my point against myself, with a heart riven asunder-I have reasons for all this anxiety, which I cannot relate now The visit, however, passed off well, and we returned in the dark to Kingston. I, with a lighter heart than I had known since my departure from Eartham, and Mary too, for she had suffered hardly less than myself, and chiefly on my account. That night we rested well in our inn, and at twenty minutes after eight next morning set off for London ; exactly at ten we reached Mr. Rose's door; we drank a dish of chocolate with him, and proceeded, Mr. Rose riding with us as far as St. Albans. From this time we met with no impediment. In the dark, and in a storm, at eight at night, we found ourselves at our own back door. Mrs. Unwin was very near slipping out of the chair in which she was taken from the chaise, but at last was landed safe. We all have had a good night, and are all well this morning.

God bless you my dearest Brother.

W. C.



Weston, Oct. 2, 1792.


A bad night, succeeded by an East wind, and a sky all in sables, have such an effect on my spirits, that if I did not consult my own comfort, more than yours, I should not write to day, for I shall not entertain you much: yet your Letter, though containing no very pleasant tidings, has afforded me some relief, It tells me, indeed, that you have been dispirited yourself, and that poor

little Tom, the faithful squire of my Mary, has been seriously indisposed; all this grieves me, but then there is a warmth of heart, and a kindness in it, that do me good. I will endeavour not to repay you in notes of sorrow and despondence, though all my sprightly chords seem broken. In truth, one day excepted, I have not seen the day when I have been chearful since I left you. My spirits, I think, are almost constantly lower than they were; the approach of winter is perhaps the cause, and if it is,


VOL. 4.

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