have been writing, I may perhaps increase its quantity. Signora Cynthia is in clouded majesty,-Silvered with her beams, I am about to jog to Clapton upon my own stumps.-Musing as I homeward plod my way-Ah! need I name the subject of my contemplations! Thursday. I had a sweet walk home last night, and found the Claptonians, with their fair guest, a Miss Mourgue, very well. My sisters send their amitiès, and will write in a few days. This morning I returned to town.-It has been the finest day imaginable.-A solemn mildness was diffused throughout the blue horizon ;-its light was clear and distinct, rather than dazzling; the serene beams of the autumnal sun!-Gilded hills-variegated woods-glittering spires-ruminating herds-bounding flocks-all combined to enchant the eyes, expand the heart, and "chase all sorrow but despair."-In the midst of such a scene, no lesser grief can prevent our sympathy with nature.-A calmness, a benevolent disposition, seizes us with sweet insinuating power. The very brute creation seem sensible of these beauties;-there is a species of mild cheerfulness in the face of a lamb, which I have but indifferently expressed in a corner of my paper, and a demure contented look in an ox, which, in the fear of expressing still worse, I leave unattempted. Business calls me away-I must dispatch my letter. Yet what does it contain? No matter; you like any thing better than news.-Indeed you never told me so, but I have an intuitive knowledge upon the subject, from the sympathy which I have constantly perceived in the taste of Julia and Cher Jean. What is it to you or me If here in the City we have nothing but riot, -But if I was to hearken to the versifying grumbling I feel within me, I should fill my paper, and not have room left to intreat that you would plead my cause to Honora more eloquently than the enclosed letter has the power of doing.-Apropos of verses, you desire me to recollect my random description of the engaging appearance of the charming Mrs. at your service Here it is, Then rustling and bustling the lady comes down, And a hobbling out of breath gait, and a frown, } This little French cousin of ours, Delarise, was my sister Mary's play-fellow at Paris. His sprightliness engages my sisters extremely. Doubtless they talk much of him to you in their letters. How sorry I am to bid you adieu! Oh let me not be forgot by the friends most dear to you at Lichfield !— Lichfield! Ah! of what magic letters is that little word composed!-How graceful it looks when it is written! Let nobody talk to me of its original meaning, *"The *Field of blood.-Here is a small mistake.-Lichfield is not the field of blood, but "the field of dead bodies," alluding to a battle fought between the Romans and the British Christians, in the Dioclesian Persecution, when the latter were massacred.— Three slain kings, with their burying-place, now Barrowcop-hill, and the Cathedral in miniature, form the City Arms. LICH is still a word in use. The Church-yard Gates, through which funerals pass, are often called Lich-gates, vulgarly Light-gates. field of blood!" Oh! no such thing!-It is the field of joy! "The beautiful City, that lifts her fair head in the valley, and says, I am, and there is none beside me!"-Who says she is vain?-Julia will not say sonor yet Honora-and least of all, their devoted JOHN ANDRE. LETTER III. Clapton, November 1, 1769. My ears still ring with the sounds of Oh Jack! Oh Jack! How do the dear Lichfieldians ?-What do they say? What are they about?-What did you do while you were with them?-Have patience, said I, good people!—and began my story, which they devoured with as much joyful avidity, as Adam did Gabriel's tidings of heaven. My mother and sisters are all very well, and delighted with their little Frenchman, who is a very agreeable lad. Surely you applaud the fortitude with which I left you! Did I not come off with flying colours? It was a great effort, for, alas! this recreant heart did not second the smiling courage of the countenance; nor is it yet as it ought to be, from the hopes it may reasonably |