"I am informed that Monsieur, (I have forgot the name) who fought so gallantly against me at Gibraltar, has been overlooked by his thankless nation; is out of health, and poor. Have the goodness to draw upon my banker at Paris for fifty guineas, and present them to him as from an unknown hand. I am not myself rich, as you know, or my donation had been less scanty."

What lustre does such a proof of generous goodness throw on the martial fame of this justly celebrated soldier!

in

My dearest father yet lives-and, I trust, not

any actual pain of body, or inquietude of spirits, since no symptoms appear of either; but the lights of reason, imagination, and memory, are extremely faded.

"Darkness gathers on the last of his days."

Farewell!

VOL. 1.

LETTER LXX.

CAPTAIN SEWARD.

Lichfield, Sept. 2, 1787.

YES, my dear Sir, I have been honoured with a visit from your truly great General,

"With all his full-blown honours thick upon him.”

The blended dignity, and kindness of his manners, perfectly answered the idea I had formed of the noble Elliot from your and Mr Vernon's description, super-added to that of public report.

You excited the flattering hope of his staying a few days with me. Could that have been fulfilled,—nay, had he passed only one night in Lichfield, the compliment of a general illumination through our little city had been paid. The words Elliot, Gibraltar, Victory, enwreathed with flowers, were to have shone in phosphorus upon the walls of our town-hall, and over the arms of the city. It was the contrivance of an ingenious young surgeon, of the name of Green, who prepared it when you taught me to expect one of the most flattering distinctions of my life; but arriving on

a Sunday morning, and departing in the afternoon, he frustrated the wish of our inhabitants to have welcomed, with public eclat, the restorer of the nation's glory.

Captain Cayleur and Mr Vernon accompanied his lordship. The former is a graceful young gentleman, strongly resembling the brave unfortunate André.

It gives me pleasure that my neighbour, Mr Vernon, stands so high in Lord Heathfield's esteem. He has considerable talents and exertion; and the warm, and entirely voluntary praise of so great and good a man, proves that they have been, at least of late years, directed to noble purposes.

Nor did Lord H. wait for my intended mention of you. We had not been ten minutes together before he entered upon a theme so agreeable, declaring his high opinion of your professional merit, of your domestic virtues; adding, "his wife will be a happy woman, and she deserves him."

My father had not sufficiently recovered from a recent epileptic fit for me to venture introducing him to my noble guest. Greatly was I disappointed that he could not have the happiness of paying his respects to one, whose name he al

ways mentions with a tear glistening in his dear eyes.

I had presented all my publications to Lord Heathfield, elegantly bound. He would not suffer his aid-de-camp to carry the book to the inn, but held it in his own hand, as he walked through our streets. I know your friendship will take a lively interest in these little circumstances, which do me so much honour.

The public critics are so venal, or so partial; so perpetually suffer their publications to be the channel through which private malice may transmit its venom; so often render their venality notorious by extolling the most worthless compositions, that I feel it impossible to be flattered by their praise, should they extend it to my writings; which is very improbable, as I know I am not in their favour. Since, therefore, I could not be gratified by their applause, yet might be hecticked by their abuse, I never look into any review; and advise every author, who cannot stoop to bribe these gentry, to follow my example in that respect.

Thus shutting my ears to the critical owls, hooting in the darkness of anonymous spleen, I can say nothing to the stricture you allude to in the Monthly Review. I have just received an high,

and most ingenious compliment in verse, upon the ode to Elliot, which, by what you say, I conclude the Monthly Review abuses. It is from Mr Mundy of Marton, author of Needwood Forest, the best local poem in this language, and contains a sovereign balm for review abuse, if I permitted it to approach near enough to wound

me.

I thank you for the tribute of love and esteem paid by Mr de Crosne to the virtues of your General. Crosne must be a good man. It is a degree of virtue next to that of doing great and glorious actions, to love those whose performance of them has been inimical to our interest, whether generally or individually. Farewell.

LETTER LXXI.

MR W. NEWTON, THE PEAK MINSTREL.

Lichfield, Sept. 26, 1787.

I AM very sorry for your declining health, and broken and perturbed rest. Perhaps your energies, the united force of your manual and mental industry bears too hard upon the vital springs