she has always found means to be charitable to the poor; and when I have seen her dealing out her alms, which was commonly a handful of oatmeal to each person, I know not how often she has put me in mind of the widow in the Gospel.

I am afraid Mrs. Arbuthnot will not long stand in need of your bounty; for she is seventy six years of age, and suffers much from a cough and an asthma.--I was introduced to her about 'twenty years ago, by her nephew, Mr. Arbuthnot of Edinburgh, and I have since been as attentive to her as I could; of which she is so sensible, that sometimes, in the extravagance of her gratitude, she has called me her good genius. She actually gave me that appellation in the first draught of the letter, which she wrote to you about a week ago, and which, I hope, you have received; but I prevailed upon her to change the phrase.

Permit me now, madam, to thank you for your most obliging letter of the twentieth of September; which, after wandering long from place to place, has overtaken me at last. The harvest scenes, that interest you so much, were also highly interesting to me in the course of my journey through England; for the weather was very fine, and every sithe and sickle, and the wagons, and the gleaners, were all in motion. With peculiar satisfaction, I took notice of that laudable English custom, of permitting the poor and the infirm to glean the fields.

How shall I thank you, madam, and my amiable friend, Mr. Montagu, for the kind invitation you give my son and me to pass some part of the ensuing spring at Sandleford? Be assured, it will be a grievous dis▾

appointment to us both, if we cannot get that matter accomplished. I hope we shall find no difficulty in it, if my domestic affairs continue quiet, as I thank God they are at present.

I am, madam, &c.

James Beattie.

LETTER III.

Dr. Beattie to the dutchess of Gordon, informing her of the death of his son.

Aberdeen, Dec. 1, 1790.

Knowing with what kindness and condescension your grace is interested in every thing that concerns me and my family, I take the liberty to inform you, that my son James is dead; that the last duties to him are now paid; and that I am endeavouring to return, with the little ability that is left me, and with entire submission to the will of Providence, to the ordinary business of life. I have lost one who was always a pleasing companion; but who, for the last five or six years, was one of the most entertaining and instructive companions that ever man was blessed with: for his mind comprehended almost every science; he was a most attentive observer of life and manners; a master of classical learning; and he possessed an exuberance of wit and humour, a force of understanding, and a correctness and delicacy of taste, beyond any other. person of his age. whom I have ever known.

He was taken ill in the night of the thirtieth of November, 1789; and from that time his decline commenced. It was long what physicians call a nervous atrophy; but towards the end of June, symptoms began to appear of

his lungs being affected. Goats' milk, and afterwards asses' milk, were procured for him in abundance; and such exercise as he could bear, he regularly took. These means lengthened his days, no doubt; and alleviated his sufferings, which, indeed, were not often severe. But, in spite of all that could be done, he grew weaker and weaker, and died on the nineteenth of November, 1790, without complaint or pain, without even a groan or a sigh; retaining to the last moment the use of his rational faculties. He lived twenty two years and thirteen days. Many weeks before death came, he saw it approaching; and he met it with such composure and pious resignation, as may no doubt be equalled, but cannot be surpassed.

He has left many things in writing, serious and humorous, scientific and miscellaneous, prose and verse, Latin and English; but it will be a long time before I shall be able to harden my heart so far as to revise them.

I have the satisfaction to know, that every thing has been done for him that could be done; and every thing according to the best medical advice that Scotland could afford. For the last five months, I kept in my family a young medical friend, who was constantly at hand: and from the beginning to the end of my son's illness, I was always either by him, or within call. From these circumstances, your grace will readily believe, that I derive no little satisfaction. But my chief comfort arises from reflecting on the particulars of his life; which was one uninterrupted exercise of piety, benevolence, filial affection, and indeed of every virtue which it was in his power to practise. I shall not, with respect to him,

adopt a mode of speech which has become too common, and call him my poor son: for I must believe, that he is infinitely happy, and that he will be so for

ever.

May God grant every blessing to your grace, your family, and all your friends!

The duke of Gordon has done me the honour, according to his wonted and very great humanity, to write me a most friendly and sympathetic letter on this occasion.

I have the honour to be, &c.

James Beattie.

CHAPTER II.

DESCRIPTIVE LETTERS.

LETTER I.

Mr. Gray to Mr. Nicholls.-Description of Southampton, and of a sea view of the rising sun.

Dear sir,

November 19, 1764.

I received your letter at Southampton.My health is much improved by the sea: not that I drank it, or bathed in it, as common people do; no! I only walked by it, and looked upon it. The climate is remarkably mild at Southampton, even in October and November. No snow has been seen to lie there for these thirty years past. The myrtles grow in the ground against the houses; and Guernsey lilies bloom in every window. The town, clean and well-built, surrounded by old stone walls with their towers and gateways, stands at the point of a peninsula; and opens full south to an arm of the sea, which, having formed two beautiful bays on each hand, stretches away in direct view, till it joins the British Channel: it is skirted on either side with gently-rising grounds, clothed with thick wood; and directly cross its mouth, rise the high lands of the Isle of Wight at distance, but distinctly seen.

In the bosom of the woods, concealed from profane eyes, lie hid the ruins of Nettely abbey. There may be richer and greater houses of religion, but the abbot is content with his situation. See, at the top of that hanging meadow, under the shade of those old trees that