dull, indolent scheme; for I do not in the least mean that we should lay aside the noblest pursuits of knowledge, which does not lie too far out of the way, but only, that whenever we find it (by what means soever) actually out of our reach, our minds should feel no distress. Adieu! I will go and take an evening walk in the long gallery; and if my thoughts should prove bad companions, a book shall amuse them into good humour.

My book has been Pascal's Thoughts; and I fancy, if you had walked with me, we should have agreed very tolerably in our sentiments. This work, wherever I have dipped into it accidentally, has given me the highest pleasure. What the author says of the grandeur and misery of human nature, taken both together, seems to me to give the justest notions of life; nor is it at all painful to consider the dark side of this prospect, when one knows that, unless things are by wilful folly put out of their due course, the sunshine is to be continually gaining ground, and the shades vanishing before it, till at last the poor, wretched, creeping animal throws off its imperfections, and shines forth in great dignity and lustre. But even then, though every such highly improved being will deserve great degrees of love and esteem, no one surely will, or can, deserve so strong and partial an attachment, as is, by some affectionate hearts and lively imaginations, thought due to the poor insect here. Care, tenderness, sympathy in joys and sorrows, every sentiment and every expression of kindness and good will, are due to our fellow-creatures; and more especially to those with whom friendship or relation has happily united us. But to centre all our joys and hopes, all our fears and anxieties, in any human object, so as to make the happiness of our lives depend solely or chiefly

upon that; to raise our affections to their utmost pitch, to add to them all the heightenings of imagination, and to fix all this in a fairy world of our own ;-is surely to put oneself in a state of mind very unsuitable to the orders of Providence, and to the nature of this world, and its short-lived inhabitants.

Pascal drew very wrong consequences from these right principles; and for fear of being too much beloved, seems to me to have grown into a harshness and austerity of behaviour to his friends, that must have given them great uneasiness. Let but human creatures be beloved like human creatures, and there is no danger of our going too far: and surely it is one of the highest duties for people to render themselves as amiable as they

can.

I am &c.

Catherine Talbot.

LETTER V.

To Mrs. Carter.

Cuddesden, Nov. 29, 1755.

I can write but a very short letter, dear miss Carter, as we are in the midst of bustle and confusion. On Monday we set off for that scene of hurry and perplexities, St. Paul's. But I must return your papers* to you, and send you my lord's remarks. I agree with him in all of them that come within my unlearned comprehension. But above all, I most earnestly beseech you to consider of what infinite importance it is, that your allusions and quotations from "the Words of eternal life," should be chosen, and made, in such a manner, as evidently to manifest that superiority of Divine to

Mrs. Carter's Translation of Epictetus,

human, which so many, alas! are endeavouring, as fast as they can, to forget. By no means compare the proud, surly cynic, with Him, "who spoke as never man spoke." O my dear friend, the more attentively you study those sacred books, the true and only source of light, and joy, and comfort, the more you will glory in their excellence; the more you will rejoice, in even this opportunity, of bearing a faithful testimony to it, in an age like ours. How long we shall have this, or any opportunity, God knows. The present year is a very alarming one. But, God be thanked! there is a sure place of refuge; and there is only one.

Great caution I am sensible is to be used, and every expression avoided that can give needless offence, as well as every one that cannot be justified by the strictest truth. But whither truth leads the way, dare undauntedly to follow.

I am &c.

Catherine Talbot.

LETTER VI.

'To Mrs. Carter.

St. Paul's, Feb. 24, 1756.

I was conscious when my last letter went

away, that there was a vehemence of expression in it, (which I had not time to soften,) very improperly addressed to one, who, I am sure, cannot but see the infinitely important subject in the same light that I do. My vehemence, therefore, was fighting not with you, but with I know not what complex idea of cold critics, and half-headed readers, that some of the notes*, and

* Mrs. Carter's notes, annexed to her translation of Epictetus.

my apprehensions of the misuse that would certainly be made of them, had conjured up in my mind.

I

Have I been very busy, you ask? Why really if I have, it has not been to much purpose; for I can recollect but little that I have done. Have I then been very idle? I heartily hope not, for that is against all my principles and resolutions. Not one of the places appropriated to dissipation have I appeared in this year. have lived on quietly from day to day: less at home than I should choose, if mere choice were the rule to be followed; and yet less with the friends, in going to whom I have spent so much time, the distance from one end of this huge town to the other being immense. If my time runs out thus imperceptibly without any visible expense, there must be some secret cheat I put upon myself, which ought to be well looked into; and I thank you for calling upon me to make the examination.

I do not tell you, however, that I have not written many letters, read many books, spent much time in company of excellent people whom I love, and a great deal in such exercise as was indispensably requisite for my health: but it is almost necessary in this place to live "au jour la journée," and giving up all schemes and choices of one's own, to despatch such employments as the present moment more immediately calls for. And, I think, Epictetus says excellent things on this head; and affirms that one ought not to be always sighing after leisure, but to know how to live sometimes without it. But I do sigh very often to feel a dead weight of unimproved time upon my hands, in the visits of this town, when a whole afternoon's conversation is wasted on the most uninteresting trifles. Would time really stand still so long, this wretched trifling might be less unpardonable. But time flows on in the same rapid course; and

A gracious

while we still trifle, eternity is upon us. Providence calls upon us, by the loudest alarms*, to hasten and finish our appointed work; and we carelessly divert our attention to objects undeserving the serious contemplations of a monkey. I do not call it trifling, to

be gay with our friends; to enliven the circle of social good humour; to improve all our talents, small as well as great, to the praise of the Giver; thankfully to enjoy and admire even his least and most common bounties; to refresh ourselves with needful relaxation; and to indulge, at fit times, the innocent sportings of fancy. But I have no patience with the false politeness of the world which banishes every subject that is interesting and delightful, if it bears but the name of seriousness, to introduce every one that is dull and tiresome, merely because it is unimportant. Some striking subjects have indeed forced themselves upon every body's attention this winter: but alas! in a soil where weeds and thorns are so plentifully sown, no lasting good can be expected without a daily preparation of the ground, begun in humility, and continued with patience.

one.

I take the unconscionable liberty of writing to you who do not need it, what I dare not speak in polite companies that do. I confess I am in a peculiarly serious disposition this winter, though by no means a gloomy I have great awe upon my mind, and yet no sort of panic. I feel an earnest desire to be the better myself, and as earnest a one that every body else may be the better, for the warnings we have had. The storms that seem ready to break over us, may yet, after a salutary threatening, be dispelled by HIM who made all

* The memorable earthquake at Lisbon, happened on the first of November, 1755.