my hourly pity, increased the pangs of final separation. It was in vain that my reason reproached the selfishness of my sorrow.

I

I cannot receive, as my due, the praise you lavish upon my filial attentions. Too passionate was my affection to have had any merit in devoting myself to its duties. I made no sacrifices; for pleasure lost its nature and its name, when I was absent from my father. studied his ease and comfort, because I delighted to see him cheerful; and, when every energy of spirit was sunk in languor, to see him tranquil. It was my assiduous endeavour to guard him from every pain, and every danger, because his sufferings gave me misery, and the thoughts of losing him, anguish.

And thus did strong affection leave nothing to be performed by the sense of duty. I hope it would have produced the same attentions on my part; but I am not entitled to say that it would, or to accept of commendation for tenderness so involuntary.

It gives me pleasure that your prospects are so bright.' A liberal and extended commerce may be as favourable to the expansion of superior abilities as any other profession; and it is certainly a much more cheerful employment than that of medicine. The humane physician must have his quiet perpetually invaded by the sorrows of those who look anxiously up to him for relief, which no human art can, perhaps, administer.

You are very good to wish to see me in London; but I have no near view of going thither. You will be sorry to hear that I have lost my health; and that I amı oppressed with symptoms of an hereditary and a dangerous disease.

Lichfield has been my home since. I was seven years

old: this house since I was thirteen; for I am still in the palace, and I do not think of moving at present. It is certainly much too large for my wants, and for my income; yet is my attachment so strong to the scene, that, if I recover, I am tempted to try, what strict economy, in other respects, will do towards enabling me to remain in a mansion, endeared to me as the tablet on which the pleasures of my youth are impressed, and the images of those that are everlastingly absent.

Adieu! Yours &c.

Anna Seward:

LETTER VII.

To Mrs. Short.

Scarborough, July 29, 1793.

It was only a few days since, and at this place, that I heard of the death of dear Mrs. Stow *. How deeply your affectionate heart has felt the pains of this separation, I know from experience; and I feel a keen sympathy with those pains, which can perhaps result alone from having felt them.

The long cherished, the long beloved, of your heart, is no more. She falls, ripe fruit, into the lap of our general mother. I know that though she did not give you birth, you will often recall her image; and weep that the venerable form is now with you only in ideal presence,

I fear that your deeply injured constitution will suffer yet further from this event: but sweet is the consoling consciousness, so plenteously yours, of having, during many years, administered with unwearied care and ten

Mrs. Short's mother-in-law.

derness, those comforts to her declining age, which not only cheered it, but undoubtedly prolonged its date.

I think and talk of you frequently, though our mutual avocations estrange our pens from each other; and never does your idea present itself to my mind, unaccompanied by the warmest wishes for the restoration of your health : but your friend, Mr. Barber, from whom I learned last week your recent loss, could not afford me satisfaction on that interesting theme.

It is in pursuit of health that I have travelled thus far. The excursion has shown me some engaging characters, amidst the large mass of folly, vanity, and pride, which are continually exhibiting their withering effect upon the social pleasures. Some of the sweetest of those pleasures, which I have tasted since I left home, arose from my renewed intercourse with the Westella family, unbeheld through so many years. I passed three delightful days on my way hither, where formerly many an animated week had, at different periods, speeded away.

Miss Sykes* is a very charming woman, elegant and graceful in her form and address. By the best chosen studies, she has assiduously cultivated her naturally fine talents; and her benevolent virtues have the most active energy. In her native village, she has established two charity schools, to which she constantly attends like a ministering angel; nor can any thing exceed the sweetness of her filial duties and attentions to her admirable parents. I am sure you will be glad to hear that the fair and gentle girl, whom you used so kindly to play with, during the time she was my pupil, is become so bright a pattern of female excellence.

* Married, in 1796, to Henry Thornton, esq.

My long-valued friend, Mr. Dewes, is here, with his brother and sister Granville: but he is lamentably out of health; nor does his disease yield, as we hoped, to the effects of sea-air. Heaven restore him; and comfort you under the regrets of deprivation!

I am, &c.

Anna Seward.

LETTER VIII.

To Mr. Saville.

Mansfield Woodhouse, Sept. 19, 1796.

I thank God for the hitherto safe course of a journey that now bends homewards. Ever welcome is that consciousness; for pleasant are my domestic bowers, and dear are the friends whose society gilds them. Yesterday evening, by six o'clock, I arrived at Woodhouse, the village of acknowledged beauty; and I was welcomed with all that energetic affection, which has ever marked good Mrs. Mompesson's attachment to me.

When I arose, at seven this morning, the sun was veiled in heavy, autumnal mists. By eight, they rolled away; and the orb looked out in golden beauty. I hastened to ascend the steep, little lawn, that immediately rises from the low-roofed, but pleasant old mansion, and at whose top commences the pretty shrubbery which winds, as I have before described to you, round a field of about two acres.

I passed ten days very agreeably at Chesterfield, with my friends, doctor and Mrs. Stokes. On Saturday, Mr. Jebb, cousin of the present sir Richard Jebb, and of the late amiable, and distinguished Dr. John Jebb, took Mrs. Jebb, Mrs. Stokes, and myself, in his carriage, to pay an interesting visit to his father; who resides in a

little Eden of his own creation, about two miles from Chesterfield. Every tree of the woods that curtain his swelling hill, was planted by his own hands. He retired from business to this rural abode, about fifty years, ago.

If this venerable gentleman live till February twelvemonth, he will have completed his century; and if he live till February three years, he will have lived in three centuries. He is the greatest wonder of intelligence so nearly centennial, that perhaps has ever existed in modern times; for he has no chimeras in his brain, and his memory is perfectly sound, not only concerning long past, but very recent transactions. It is within the

last year only, that his limbs are become too feeble to allow him to walk further than across the room. His teeth are all gone, and their desertion has impaired his utterance a little; but he is not defective either in sight, or hearing, in any marked degree.

I

I cannot express with what an awed tenderness I was affected, when this very reverend personage rose, with mild grace, to receive me. He is a perfect Nestor in eloquence. "Madam," said he, "I am glad to see you. I remember your father a sprightly bachelor. travelled from London with him, when he went to take possession of the living of Eyam. He was a lovely man; of a fine person, and of a frank, communicative spirit. Soon after that period, he married a beautiful young lady, your mother, madam.-Mr. Seward, as you know, had travelled; and he spoke admirably of the customs and manners of foreign nations." I wept with pleasure at this testimony of respect to my father's memory, from a character thus venerable.

He indulged my inquiries after the habits of a life