he left Tom behind him, and came in sight of a most numerous hunt, of men, women, children, and dogs; that he did his best to keep back the dogs, and presently outstripped the crowd, so that the race was at last disputed between himself and puss—she ran right through the town, and down the lane that leads to Dropshort-a little before she came to the house, he got the start and turned her; she pushed for the town again, and soon after she entered it, sought shelter in Mr. Wagstaff's tan-yard, adjoining to old Mr. Drake's Sturges's harvest-men were at supper, and saw her from the opposite side of the way. There she encountered the tan-pits full of water, and while she was struggling out of one pit, and plunging into another, and almost drowned, one of the men drew her out by the ears, and secured her. She was then well washed in a bucket, to get the lime out of her coat, and brought home in a sack, at ten o'clock.

This frolic cost us four shillings, but you may believe we did not grudge a farthing of it. The poor creature received only a little hurt in one of her claws, and in one of her ears, and is now almost as well as ever.

I do not call this an answer to your Letter, but

such as it is, I send it, presuming upon that interest, which I know you take in my minutest concerns, which I cannot express better than in the words of Terence, a little varied-Nihil mei a te alienum putas.

I am obliged to you for your long Letter, which did not seem so, and for your short one, which was more than I had any reason to expect. Short as it was, it conveyed to me two interesting articles of intelligence. An account of your recovering from a fever, and of Lady Cowper's death. The latter was, I suppose, to be expected, for by what remembrance I have of her Ladyship, who was never much acquainted with her, she had reached those years, that are always found upon the borders of another world. As for you, your time of

life is comparatively of a youthful date. You may think of death as much as you please (you cannot think of it too much) but I hope you will live to think of it many years.

that

It costs me not much difficulty to suppose,

my friends who were already grown old, when I saw them last, are old still, but it costs me a good deal sometimes to think of those, who were at that time young, as being older than they were, Not having been an eye-witness of the change, that time has made in them, and my former idea of them not being corrected by observation, it remains the same; my memory presents me with this image unimpaired, and while it retains the resemblance of what they were, forgets, that, by this time, the picture may have lost much of its likeness, through the alteration, that succeeding years have made in the original. I know not what impressions Time may have made upon your person, for while his claws (as our grannams called them) strike deep furrows in some faces, he seems to sheath them with much tenderness, as if fearful of doing injury, to others. But though an enemy to the person, he is a friend to the mind, and you have found him so. Though, even in this respect, his treatment of us depends upon what he meets with at our hands ;

if we use him well, and listen to his admonitions, he is a friend indeed, but otherwise the worst of enemies, who takes from us daily something that we valued, and gives us nothing better in its stead. It is well with them, who, like you, can stand a tip-toe on the mountain top of human life, look down with pleasure upon the valley they have passed, and sometimes stretch their wings in joyful hope of a happy flight into Eternity. Yet a little while, and your hope will be accomplished.

When you can favour me with a little account of your own family, without inconvenience, I shall be glad to receive it, for though separated from my kindred by little more than half a century of miles, I know as little of their concerns, as if oceans, and continents were interposed between us.

Yours,

My dear Cousin,

W. C.

LETTER LXIV.

To the Revd. WILLIAM UNWIN.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

Sept. 3, 1780

I am glad you are so provident, and that while you are young, you have furnished yourself with the means of comfort in old age. Your crutch and your pipe, may be of use to you, (and may they be so) should your years be extended to an antediluvian date, and for your perfect accommodation, you seem to want nothing but a clerk called Snuffle, and a sexton of the name of Skeleton, to make your ministerial equipage complete.

I think I have read as much of the first volume of the Biographia, as I shall ever read. I find it very amusing; more so perhaps, than it would have been, had they sifted their characters with more exactness, and admitted none but those, who had in some way or other, entitled themselves to immortality, by deserving well of the public. Such a compilation, would perhaps have been more judicious, though I confess it would have afforded less variety. The priests and monks of earlier, aud the doctors of la