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they are such as all my other friends have borne with, since my writing-weariness has seized me, and such as I still, and upon equally shabby morsels of paper, continue to give them. Nor have I yet thought, that to accept was to abuse their indulgence. When they understood that writing was utterly irksome to me, except as a mere vehicle to prevent uneasiness on their part, and to obtain intelligence on mine, they concurred not to make my silence still more oppressive to me than my writing, by a kind reception of a few words, and returning me letters for notes.

And why are you so much more severe and tenacious? Why, rather, you will perhaps ask, should you, because you see me thus spoilt, join in spoiling me?

My faithful attachment I am sure you cannot doubt; and why should that affection in your estimation be so little, which in mine, where I dare believe I possess it, predominates over all things, save my opinion of the worth of the character from which I may receive it ?-by little, I only mean little satisfactory, unless unremittingly and regularly proved by length of letters. I do not imagine you to slight it in itself; but I see you utterly dissatisfied without its constant manifestation.

It appears to me, perhaps wrongly, you have wrought yourself into a fit of fancied resentment against a succession of short letters, which could only have been merited by letters that were unfriendly. You forget, meanwhile, the numerous letters I have, at various epochs, received from yourself, not merely of half-pages, but of literally three lines; and you forget them because they were never received with reproach, nor answered with coldness. By me they were equally valued with the longest, though they gave me not equal entertainment, for I prized them as marks of affection, and I required them as bulletins of

health. Entertainment, or information, I never considered as a basis of correspondence, though no one, you may believe, can more delight to meet with them. The basis of letters, as of friendship, must be kindness, which does not count lines or words, but expressions and meaning; which is indulgent to brevity, puts a favourable construction upon silence, grants full liberty to inclination, and makes every allowance for convenience. Punctuality, with respect to writing, is a quality in which I know myself deficient; but which, also, I have to no one ever promised. To two persons only I have practised it,-my father, and my sister Phillips; there is a third whose claims are still higher; but uninterrupted intercourse has spared all trial to my exactness. My other friends, however near, and however tender, have all accepted my letters, like myself, for better and for worse, and, finding my heart unalterable, have left my pen to its own propensities.

Nor am I quite aware what species of "information" you repine at not receiving. An elaborate composition, written for admiration, and calculated to be exhibited to strangers, I should not be more the last to write than you -quick and penetrating to whatever is ridiculous-would be the first to deride and despise. A gay and amusing rattle, you must be sensible, can flow only from the humour of the moment, which an idea of raised expectation represses rather than promotes. A communication of private affairs * no, the very letter which produced this complaint contained a statement of personal concerns the most important I have had to write since my marriage.

From all this, which reluctantly, though openly, I have written, you will deduce, that, while you think me unkind (as I apprehend), I think you unjust,

But I have written, now, as well as read,-and have emptied my mind of all ungenial thoughts; hasten, then, dear to fill up the space once more with those fairer materials which the estranged style of your late letters has wofully compressed. You will think of me, you say, always as you ought: if you do, I may venture to send you again the shabby paper, or wide margin, you have received so indignantly, by reminding you, in the first place, that the zealous advocate for public liberty must not be an imposer of private exactions; and in the second, that, though the most miserable of correspondents, I am the most unchangeable of friends.

And now, if I could draw, I would send you the olivebranch, with our arms mutually entwining it. Enclose me the design, and I will return you its inscriptions.

F. D'A.

I find my father has heard just the same high character of the supereminent powers and eloquence of the Abbé Legard that you sent me in a former letter.

The Lock family have not yet returned from town. They did not go thither till late in April. Have you seen Mr. Williams's beautiful sketch of Lady Templetown's two eldest daughters?

We have begun, at last, the little Hermitage we have so long purposed rearing for our residence; and M. d'Arblay, who is his own architect and surveyor, is constantly with his workmen, whom Bab and I do not spare visiting and admiring. God bless you!

Dr. Burney to Madame d'Arblay.

Saturday Night, July 20, 1797.

MY DEAR FANNY.-The close of the season is always hurry-scurry. I shall begin a letter to-night, and leave it

on the stocks, that is, the table, to stare me in the face, lest in the hurry I am and shall be in, you should lose your turn. I was invited to poor Mr. Burke's funeral, by Mrs. Crewe and two notes from Beaconsfield. Malone and I went to Bulstrode together in my car, this day sevennight, with two horses added to mine. Mrs. Crewe had invited me thither when she went down first. We found the Duke of P. there; and the Duke of Devonshire and Windham came to dinner. The Chancellor and Speaker of the House of Commons could not leave London till four o'clock, but arrived a little after seven. We all set off together for Beaconsfield, where we found the rest of the pall-bearers-Lord Fitzwilliam, Lord Inchiquin, and Sir Gilbert Eliot, with Drs. King and Lawrence, Fred North, Dudley North, and many of the deceased's private friends, though by his repeated injunction the funeral was to be very private. We had all hatbands, scarfs, and gloves; and he left a list to whom rings of remembrance are to be sent, among whom my name occurred; and a jeweller has been here for my measure. I went back to Bulstrode, by invitation, with the two Dukes, the Chancellor, and Speaker, Windham, Malone, and Secretary King. I stayed there till Sunday evening, and got home just before the dreadful storm. The Duke was extremely civil and hospitable,-pressed me much to stay longer and go with them, the Chancellor, Speaker, Windham, and Mrs. Crewe, to Pinn, to see the school, founded by Mr. Burke, for the male children of French emigrant nobles; but I could not with prudence stay, having a couple of ladies waiting for me in London, and two extra horses with me.

So much for poor Mr. Burke, certainly one of the greatest men of the present century; and I think I might say the best orator and statesman of modern

VOL. VI.

I

times. He had his passions and prejudices to which I did not subscribe; but I always admired his great abilities, friendship, and urbanity; and it would be ungrateful in you and me, to whom he was certainly partial, not to feel and lament his loss.

C. B.

Madame d'Arblay to Dr. Burney.

Bookham, July 27, '97.

MY DEAREST PADRE,-A letter of so many dates is quite delicious to me; it brings me so close to you from day to day, that it seems nearest to verbal intercourse. How agreeable" I should be to your keeping one upon the stocks for me thus in your journey! And how I should like to receive a letter from Shrewsbury! Nevertheless, I am sensible Shrewsbury will be but a melancholy view now, but interest does not dwell alone with merriment, merry as we all like to be.

Your most kind solicitude for Alex makes me never like to take a letter in hand to you when his health gives me inquietude; his health alone can do it, for his disposition opens into all our fondest hopes could form, either for our present gratification or future prospects. 'Tis the most enjoyable little creature, Norbury Phillips excepted, I ever saw at so early an age.

I was surprised, and almost frightened, though at the same time gratified, to find you assisted in paying the last honours to Mr. Burke. How sincerely I sympathise in all you say of that truly great man! That his enemies say he was not perfect is nothing compared with his immense superiority over almost all those who are merely exempted from his peculiar defects. That he was upright in heart, even where he acted wrong, I do truly believe;

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