visit me in the course of the month, in order
to recover his appetite (which has been much relaxed of late) by the
country air.

My uncle wrote to me, three weeks since, announcing the death of the
infant Lady Glenmorris had brought him. Sincerely do I wish that his
loss may be supplied. I have already sufficient fortune for my wants,
and sufficient hope for my desires.

Thornton died as he had lived--the reprobate and the ruffian. "Pooh,"
said he, in his quaint brutality, to the worthy clergyman, who attended
his last moments with more zeal than success; "Pooh, what's the
difference between gospel and go--spell? we agree like a bell and its
clapper--you're prating while I'm hanging."

Dawson died in prison, penitent and in peace. Cowardice, which spoils
the honest man, often ameliorates the knave.

From Lord Dawton I have received a letter, requesting me to accept a
borough (in his gift), just vacated. It is a pity that generosity--such
a prodigal to those who do not want it--should often be such a niggard
to those who do. I need not specify my answer. One may as well be free
as dependant, when one can afford it; and I hope yet to teach Lord
Dawton, that to forgive the minister is not to forget the affront.
Meanwhile, I am content to bury myself in my retreat with my mute
teachers of logic and legislature, in order, hereafter, to justify his
lordship's good opinion of my senatorial abilities. Farewell, Brutus, we
shall meet at Philippi!

It is some months since Lady Roseville left England; the last news we
received of her, informed us, that she was living at Sienna, in utter
seclusion, and very infirm health.

"The day drags thro', though storms keep out the sun, And thus the heart
will break, yet brokenly live on."

Poor Lady Glanville! the mother of one so beautiful, so gifted, and so
lost. What can I say of her which "you, and you, and you--" all who are
parents, cannot feel, a thousand times more acutely, in those recesses
of the heart too deep for words or tears. There are yet many hours in
which I find the sister of the departed in grief, that even her husband
cannot console; and I--I--my friend, my brother, have I forgotten thee
in death? I lay down the pen, I turn from my employment--thy dog is at
my feet, and looking at me, as if conscious of my thoughts, with an eye
almost as tearful as my own.

But it is not thus that I will part from my reader; our greeting was not
in sorrow, neither shall be our