over that gazette, and wet
its brown pages with tears of gratitude and rapture? How many weary
wretches will it deliver from camps and hospitals, and restore once
more to the comforts of a peaceful and industrious life? What are
victories to rejoice at, compared with an event like this? Your
bonfires and illuminations are dimmed with blood and with tears, and
battle is in itself a great evil, and a subject of general grief and
lamentation. The victors are only the least unfortunate, and suffering
and death have, in general, brought us no nearer to tranquillity and
happiness.' It may be well thus to bring the value of a peace before
the public mind. Let those who only know of war from history, reflect
how great must be the evils of a state the cessation of which gives
such a feeling of relief.

Here is a curious passage about the society of Liverpool in 1813, and
his love of his native country. We must receive the statement
respecting the Quakers with something more than doubt, at least as to
the extent to which it is true:--'I have been dining out every day for
this last week with Unitarians, and Whigs, and Americans, and brokers,
and bankers, and small fanciers of pictures and paints, and the Quaker
aristocracy, and the fashionable vulgar, of the place. But I do not
like Liverpool much better, and could not live here with any comfort.
Indeed, I believe I could not live anywhere out of Scotland. All my
recollections are Scottish, and consequently all my imaginations; and
though I thank God that I have as few fixed opinions as any man of my
standing, yet all the elements out of which they are made have a
certain national cast also. In short, I will not live anywhere else if
I can help it; nor die either; and all old Esky's[3] eloquence would
have been thrown away in an attempt to persuade me that _banishment
furth the kingdom_ might be patiently endured. I take more to Roscoe,
however: he is thoroughly good-hearted, and has a sincere, though
foolish concern for the country. I have also found out a Highland
woman with much of the mountain accent, and sometimes get a little
girl to talk to. But with all these resources, and the aid of the
Botanical Garden, the time passes rather heavily; and I am in some
danger of dying of ennui, with the apparent symptoms of extreme
vivacity. Did you ever hear that most of the Quakers die of
stupidity--actually and literally? I was assured of the fact the other
day by a very intelligent