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shot, or otherwise executed, by the laws of poetical pathos. What would poetry be, if heroines were to sail happily and smoothly through a few hundred smooth lines, and never squeeze a tear from the heart of the reader? No, no: I have had a lady of great perfection in mind, manners, and physiognomy, for many months sentenced to a tragical end in my next poem. She may claim whatever resemblance she pleases to real life, but the law must take its course, and the best is, that, while the copy perishes, the original still lives to furnish new pictures of perfection, and new sources of tragical interest in another portraiture under a different name.

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Long as I have expected, I have not, till the other day, commenced acquaintance with Mrs. She is indeed a very pleasing woman. Not that I ever intended to steal the affections of the elderly lady, but from that real attraction which worth possesses. Her simplicity and benevolence of character detained me at the first visit till we had grown quite old friends. I called early in the evening, and the time insensibly past, till the "curfew tolled the knell of parting day," and put me in mind that I had a "busy housewife trimming the evening fire" for me at home. The old gentleman, very respectable, got me on Church history; and we crack'd, as the Scotch say, like pen-guns. Happening to be a little acquainted with the ecclesiastical history of Scotland, I took the worthy magistrate on his weak side; and on the whole, so modestly and properly did I take care to deport myself, breaking no jokes, nor speaking one word without square and rule, that I flattered myself, when I had gone, the old folks would say, "Well, my dear, that Mr. Campbell is really a sweet, pleasant, proper behaved, young man." But hush-that is quite between ourselves. and Mrs. hear of the

To be sure if Mrs.

extravagant wildness of this letter, they will advise my friends to cognosce and confine me to a private mad-house. Say then that I send them "my love." But pray, in pity, good Miss Mayow, don't punish me so far as to tell them what a correspondent I am! Kindly, and generously consign this epistle, like a repentant martyr, to the flames, and let forgiveness dwell on its memory! The wish to send you agreeable news of dear Fanny, betrayed me to attack you with so much array of nonsense. You are not apt to take offence-no, but placable, as all good and genuine heroines should be to their mad poets. Matilda has had a slight cold; she is again, thank God, quite recovered. She speaks and thinks of you, for I know her thoughts, just as when your mutual fair eyes looked at one another with tears of regret to part. I often think, when she is a poor widow you will come and sit with her, and speak of her deceased spouse !

I saw your dear nephews, William-Pitt and Dacres, to-day, thriving, like my own sweet boys, on this invigorating air of Sydenham. William's intellects make me sometimes start to contrast them with poor Thomas, but I cannot envy any superiority in those whom I love greatly. May we soon see you, dear Miss Mayow, your own former self again. Matilda joins me, in every affectionate wish, your sincere friend,

THOS. CAMPBELL.

To the same lady, whose health was still in a critical state at Cheltenham, he writes again.

SYDENHAM, October 15, 1807.

Your health, my dear Miss M- is indeed too precious (and I am alarmed to hear of its not amending) to be wasted in attending to such foolish correspondence

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as my last. So that the reason of your overlooking it is to me too seriously accounted for. I have had fears, however, that my wife's silence would seem unkind. Matilda-God bless her-is all kindness; and to you, both kindness and admiration. She has only one faultunwillingness, arising from modesty, to be any body's correspondent. When delays and obstacles arose to our marriage, I never could get her to correspond with me, though I knew her mind very well. You will see from this what a shy being she is. Yet need I say you know her value; and assuredly, therefore, you will not abate your affection for her, who, in spite of silence, has so much for you. I feel the last news of you a most afflicting thing to think of; for my mind was quite sanguine as to your immediate recovery. I know not what to say, for I am a bad comforter where I feel so uncomfortable myself. Perhaps a persevering trial of Cheltenham will yet do much; and Dr. Jenner's skill is a host of hope. He is the best of physicians; and you have surely-I know not why I should say so positively, yet so it is that I think so positively a fine and healable constitution. Health is so much and obviously your nature that it must soon return to you. Fine natural spirits—a mind of vigour, yet not impetuosity—a tone of temper and blood so calm, and yet elastic-are symptoms to me incontestable of nature intending you for very few and transient ailments. I could almost play the prophet when I think of these circumstances, (and long ago the prophet and poet were but one thing); and if I were by you I should describe to you, in the spirit of divination, a thousand pretty scenes to be exhibited when my wife and you and I are grown reverend old personages, chatting about the thirty-year-old anecdotes of Sydenham and Cheltenham.

Your dear family I have not seen to-day. There are

times when even those most agreeable would be an overmatch for my spirits; and so it was to-day. Not being in the attic story (in that respect) I kept at home. It is very strange that now-it was not so formerly-the days after a well-slept night are attended with frequent depression; whereas the unslept days give me often an unlooked for though certainly false exhilaration. This is bad, that only fever can make me happy. But I will not overwhelm you with complaints. Your kind family have lent me their shower bath, and I have set about using it. This experiment I have little doubt will be very salutary.

We now see the D-s occasionally; their simple native goodness is very amiable. . . . The lady spoke to me of her son—a son who seems wholly worthy of her affection. I cannot well explain it in a few words; but so it is, that the story of a mother and son's affection, which was once related to me in early life, made so indelible an impression, that every time--for fifteen time-for fifteen years past-that I have heard of extraordinary instances of that tender attachment, it brings the tears to my eyes. She described her feelings in such a maternal manner, that it overcame me to weakness.

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The comet has been visible here as well as with you! Our cook maid hearing me discourse to Mrs. C. on the dangers of comets sweeping away suns and stars, came up last night to Matilda with fear in her looks, and exclaimed "La, ma'am, I hope it will be put off to-night, for how dangerous it must be where there are children!!'

It would ill become me even to wish you to write to us, after what I have said. Yet wishes will prevail over duty, and I must say that, unless it did you much harm, I know nothing that would be more acceptable; for though I know from head-quarters how you are, it is more delightfully satisfactory to hear from yourself.

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OPINION OF FRIEND-THE COMET.

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Matilda joins me in her heart-wishes for your health, happiness, and speedy return. My dear namesake, Thomas, is beside me. I ask him if he does not join, and he says "humph," which I will swear means yes. I am sure if you saw his little white broad shoulder, you would think with me that the heathen gods, who had a feast of a child offered to them for supper, were right to begin with a bite of the shoulder. For my own part, I worry his little shoulder half the day. I have found a most edifying letter to insert in your Collectanea—a letter from the salt-box to the pepper-box. It will make you laugh.

I like that book, for it always makes me remember how much I have the honour and pleasure to be,

Your affectionate friend,

THOS. CAMPBELL.

This was followed by another letter to the fair invalid, very characteristic of the writer; and alike remarkable for its elegance, truth, and originality.

SYDENHAM, October 19, 1807.

My own wishes and Matilda's were divided between the desire of seeing a note from yourself, and the fear of being the means of eliciting the exertion of your writing to the indulgence of our happiness; but what is much more precious, is your own health. We have thought a good deal on the dangers of writing-yet, making all allowance for partiality decidedly wrong, we begin to think that writing may, at times, amuse you, and so be not only innocent, but advantageous. We judge, I believe, not erroneously, from our own feelings, that every sensible remembrancer of absent friends, is good for the spirits; and never surely is one so truly, so spiritually, present with one's friends, as in writing! It is a delightful privilege.