1000 hogsheads each-costly contents!-Ten more holding 1000 barrels each, were constructed to stew in this pernicious mess; and afterwards erected, on I forget how much ground bought for the ruinous purpose.

That all were spoiled, was but a secondary sorrow. We had in the commercial phrase, no beer to start for customers. We had no money to purchase with. Our clerks, insulted long, rebelled and ratted, but I held them in. A sudden run menaced the house, and death hovered over the head of the principal. I think some faint image of the distress appears in Doctor Johnson's forty-eighth letter, 1st vol. But God tempers every evil with some good. Such was my charming mother's firmness and such her fond attachment to us both, that our philosophical friend, embracing her, exclaimed, that he was equally charmed by her conduct, and edified by her piety. "Fear not the menaces of suicide," said he; "the man who has two such females to console him, never yet killed himself, and will not now. Of all the bankrupts made this dreadful year," continued he, "none have destroyed themselves but married men; who would have risen from the weeds undrowned, had not the women clung about and sunk them, stifling the voice of reason with their cries." Ah, Sir James Fellowes, and have not I too been in a ship on fire*, not for two hours, but for two full weeks,

* Alluding to the fire on board an East Indiaman, in which Sir James Fellowes was passenger.

between the knowledge of my danger and the end on't?

Well! first we made free with our mother's money, her little savings! about 3000l.-'twas all she had; and, big as I was with child, I drove down to Brighthelmstone, to beg of Mr. Scrase 6000l. more he gave it us -and Perkins, the head clerk, had never done repeating my short letter to our master, which only said, “I have done my errand, and you soon shall see returned, whole, as I hope-your heavy and faithful messenger,

H. L T."

Perkins' sons are now in possession of the place, their father but lately dead. Dear Mr. Scrase was an old gouty solicitor, retired from business, friend and contemporary of my husband's father. Mr. Rush lent us 6000l., Lady Lade 5000.-our debts, including those of Humphrey Jackson, were 130,000l., besides borrowed money. Yet in nine years was every shilling paid; one, if not two elections well contested; and we might, at Mr. Thrale's death, have had money, had he been willing to listen to advice, as you will see by our correspondence, which it is now time for you to begin, and be released from these scenes of calamity. The baby that I carried lived an hour-my mother a year; but she left our minds more easy. I lay awake twelve nights and days, I remember, 'spite of all art could do; but here I am, vexing your tired ear with past afflictions.

You will see that many letters were suppressed. But as you have probably thought more of my literary, than

of my moral or social existence, though I hope not, it will be right at least to say that it was during the winters of those happy years when I reigned Queen at Offley Place all summer, that Hogarth made me sit for his fine picture of the Lady's Last Stake, now in possession of Lord Charlemont.

It was then, too, when I was about thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen years old, that I took a fancy to write in the "St. James's Chronicle," unknown to my parents and my tutor too: it was my sport to see them reading, studying, blaming or praising their own little whimsical girl's performances; but such was their admiration of one little verse thing, that I could not forbear owning it, and am sorry that no copy has, I believe, been kept.

The little poetical trash I did write in earnest, is preserved somewhere, perhaps in "Thraliana," which I promised to Mrs. Mostyn: perhaps in a small repository I prepared for dear Salusbury, before our final parting: such I meant it to be; but have no guess how you will find the stuff, or whether he ever thought it worth his while to keep old aunt's school exercises — such he would probably and naturally consider them. There is a little poem called "Offley Park" I know; another "On my poor Aunt Anna Maria's favourite Ash Tree;" and one styled "The Old Hunter's Petition for Life," written to save dear Forester from being shot because grown superannuated. There is a little odd metaphysical toy beside, written to divert Doctor Collier after the death of his dog Pompey, for whom James Harris made a Greek epitaph, of which

this is the English meaning, as I remember; but no doubt all is lost, and these verses are not mine. I forget whose though:

“Here what remains of Pompey lies,
Handsome, generous, faithful, wise.
Then shouldst thou, friend, possess a bitch
In nature's noble gifts as rich;

When Death shall take her, let her have
With Pompey here one common grave;
So from their mingled dust shall rise
A race of dogs as good and wise:
Dogs who disease shall never know,
Rheumatic ache or gouty toe;
Nor feel the dire effects of tea,
Nor show decay by cachexy.

For if aright the future Fates I read,

Immortal are the dogs their pregnant dust shall breed.”

The great James Harris was no disdainer of trifles. He wrote the two comical dialogues at the end of "David Simple," an old novel composed by Dr. Collier's sister, who was dead before I knew him, in conjunction with Sally Fielding, whose brother was author of "Tom Jones," not yet obsolete.. James Harris gave me his "Hermes" interleaved, that I might write my remarks on it, proving my attention to philosophical grammar, for which study I had shown him signs of capacity, I trust; but Collier would not suffer him to talk metaphysics in my hearing, unless he himself was the respondent. Oh, what conversations! What correspon

dences were these! never renewed after my wedding day, October 11th, 1763. Dr. Johnson was perhaps justly offended if I even appeared to recollect them, and

in my mother's presence. There was no danger. They had never fallen in Mr. Thrale's way - of course.

But you make me an egotist, and force me to remember scenes and ideas I never dreamed of communicating. The less so, because finding my fortune of late circumscribed in a manner wholly new to me, no doubt remained of all celebrity following my lost power of entertaining company, giving parties, &c.; and my heart prepared to shut itself quite up, convinced there existed not a human creature who cared one atom for poor H. L. P. now she had no longer money to be robbed of. That disinterested kindness does exist, however, my treatment here at Bath evinces daily, and in six months will come. if things do but continue in their natural my restoration day. Meanwhile this odd prefatory collection of Biographical Anecdotes are at your service.

course

It may be not unamusing to compare the foregoing account of her early life with some passages in the Conway MS.

"A lady once -'t was many years ago asked me to lend her a book out of my library at Streatham Park. A book of entertainment,' said I, of course.' "That I don't know or rightly comprehend,' was her odd answer; I wish for an Abridgment.' 'An Abridgment of what?' That,' she replied, you must tell me, my Dear; for I am no reader like you and Dr. Johnson; I only remember that the last book I read was very pretty, and my husband called it an Abridg