the bad. But, instead of submitting patiently to the infirmities and faults of human nature, we are apt to lay all the blame upon particular people.

Do not think, however, that I am at all inclined to the wretched set of writers who try to represent human nature as utterly base and contemptible: on the contrary, I have the highest notions of those noble improvements of which it is very capable; only I see strongly its great fallibility, and that perfection of any kind is not to be looked for here. In youth, we are apt to form too beautiful ideas. Every thing in this world, even the highest merit we can meet with in it, deserves to be treated with some degree of indifference. There is a moderation to be observed, even in our justest sentiments, our tenderest attachments, and our most laudable pùrsuits. But our minds, evidently made for a state of mediocrity, are strangely apt to run into extremes. Many people have no notion of any intermediate step between all excellence in a character, and an absolute annihilation of it, upon the first fault. This occasions what, I think, gives a most painful feeling,that strange, contradictory way in which characters of remarkable people are bandied about in the world. Some commend Addison for his learning, his elegant composition, his moral character; another refers you to Mr. Pope's Atticus for his vanity, his pride, and self-love! Very well: Mr. Addison had human frailties; but why are they not compatible with great and real virtues; why may we not admire him, and other characters of much greater mixture, as amiable and excellent, without any indignation at them for not being angels?

I have left no room for the subject one's heart and head are full of at present; but talking it over and over,

scarcely serves any other purpose than to make one quite giddy. We are in the hands of Providence; and though we are bad enough ourselves, our cause is good and noble. If you have any news on your coast, pray send it to me. God forbid you should have any from

France!

Yours &c.

Catherine Talbot.

LETTER II.

To Mrs. Carter.

Cuddesden, June 8, 1748.

I own myself to blame, dear miss Carter, for not having written to you sooner. Your kind concern for us deserved to be earlier satisfied; and I am ashamed you should have had any occasion to inquire for us at the house.

What we have suffered on our return hither, both in the journey and ever since, would give you too much pain to be told. Though I began to dread it before we left town, the reality has surpassed my apprehensions; and I am at present pretty well convinced that the stupid insensibility of which I accused myself, was only a chimera. My imagination, seldom lively enough in its paintings to represent distinctly to me even the face of persons whom I have conversed with the day before, is now perpetually setting before my eyes all the much loved imagery of former happy years. I see the dear friend* I have lost, in every variety of situation and employment that I was used to behold her in here. Every

* Mrs. Secker, the wife of Dr. Secker, bishop of Oxford, and afterwards archbishop of Canterbury.

spot, and every object, renews her idea. As this was the place she used most to enjoy herself in, and where she partook all the happiness which she heightened, I cannot help foolishly, and indeed unkindly, wishing her back again, to share those paltry pleasures with me. When after a full indulgence, which is the best relief, my thoughts are naturally led to some other attention, they are called off by a more painful one, which I cannot help having, to my lord and to my mother. As they command themselves so well, and smooth over the outward appearance into all that calmness, and propriety of behaviour, which reason and religion dictate, I am forced almost to pry into their hearts for the inward anxiety that I would fain relieve; I watch every look, and every unbidden sigh, and I am in double uneasiness at every new melancholy object which I think will wound them.

This is my situation; but do not be uneasy for any of us. We shall all do well. As for myself in particular, I have, whether you will believe me or not, a natural cheerfulness of temper, as well as of principle, and an aptitude to be pleased, and to see every object in a beautiful light, that will, with time, give me very good spirits. I am better to day than I have been at all. We have begun our rides; and we have had one that was really pleasant. The bishop of Gloucester's leaving us on Friday, is no good circumstance; but we have company in the house, and we never want employment.

So far of my letter I wrote last night, by the remnant of owl light; and I find it is scarcely legible. Do not imitate me; I am much better at giving precepts, than in setting examples. One thing, however, I would have you do like me as my letter has been all about

myself, pray let yours be all about yourself. I want much to hear of all that concerns you: the health of your sister; your place of abode, whether Enfield or London; your employments, amusements, embarrassments, vexations; and, in short, your thoughts upon all manner of subjects. Having made so reasonable a demand, I have nothing more to do, but to present you the kind compliments of the two bishops and of my mother; and to thank you, as I do most sincerely, for the many delightful hours, you were so kind as to spend with me in London, and for thinking it worth while to take so many long walks for my sake. Believe me, I am not ungrateful; but I am ever &c.

Catherine Talbot,

LETTER III.

To Mrs. Carter.

Cuddesden, July 4, 1748.

Here I am, dear miss Carter, determined to answer your two delightful letters, which I had purposed doing long ago, but I always put off till to-morrow: and who knows what to-morrow is, or what it shall produce? For since that intention and this act, I have had a week's parenthesis of absolute indolence, insipidity, and uselessness; having been laid up with the childish disorder of the chicken-pox. I am now, I thank God, getting pretty well again, though it is but to-day that I have been allowed to dine below.

Dear miss Carter, why do you wish me more attached than I am to the world, where the slightest disorder reduces one, in so short a time, to so low and wretched a state of being? I feel great and lively gratitude that I have any place at all in it; that I am continued in it

among such friends; and that I may hope to make them some little amends for all the trouble I have given them. I am thankful for life; I love it; I enjoy it with cheerfulness; and I try to improve it to the utmost. I do not pretend to be above the world; but various circumstances have contributed to set me at a distance from it. Convinced by blessed experience, and directed by that Guiding Eye, which certainly saw that nearer I should have been too liable to be entangled, and too weak to disengage myself; I only wish to keep my distance. But surely there is no innocent delight, or relief to human weakness, that I will not most thankfully stoop from the proudest contemplation to pick up, and put in my bosom like a damask rose. But trifles I would look upon as trifles, and not subject myself to be really hurt by them; nor would I suffer my imagination to swell any pleasure beyond the natural size, for fear it should also in proportion increase the attendant pain beyond what I have strength to bear.

I am very much obliged to you for entering into all the particulars I desired to hear, both about yourself and your friends. I rejoice greatly at the good account you give me of your sister.-I absolve you entirely for your question, which was so far from offending against truth, that I think it was a shield very cleverly thrown before her to prevent every attack. I am persuaded, if people did but employ half the skill and genius in avoiding falsehoods, or making necessary truths appear graceful, that they employ in a very different, wretched way, conversation would be much benefited.

Adieu, for the present! I have so lately recovered the use of my eyes, that I must not be too free with them; but I must, before I leave off, tell you how