lebrated Edmund Burke for the city of Bristol. With Burke he was intimately acquainted, and used to relate various anecdotes of the genius and impetuosity of that far-famed statesman. Mr. Mullett crossed the Atlantic at the close of the American war, and several times repeated his voyage to that distant country. He was acquainted with GENERAL WASHINGTON. I have recorded a curious conversation that passed between them in my Excursion to Windsor (article Hampton Court,) whilst he was passing a few days at Mount Vernon. Latterly Mr. M. settled in London in partnership with his much respected son-in-law Mr. J. J. Evans, who died a little before him, and both were interred by me in Bunhill Fields. He was a man of superior talent, indefatigable activity, and unimpeachable integrity. A native of Taunton, he died at his house in Clapham Road, Nov. 14, 1814, in the 69th year of his age; deeply regretted by a large circle of connections. A son and three daughters were left to cherish his memory. Never was there a more intelligent and zealous friend both of civil and religious liberty.

Among the remains of ministers deposited here, are those of the Rev. James Newton, A. M. who was assistant tutor at the Baptist academy. He was a sensible, calm, modest man, taught the classics at his own apartments also, and had the felicity of numbering the celebrated Hannah More among his pupils. He died in the year 1790, and his funeral sermon was preached and published by

Dr. C. Evans, his friend and associate in the academy.

At Fish Ponds, in the vicinity of Bristol, is a mansion for the reception of the insane, and where they are treated wlth great humanity: "Practical Observations on Insanity," by its superintendant, Dr. Joseph Mason Cox, are entitled to attention. Alas! that there should be so many cases of religious madness, since revelation was designed to enlighted and cheer us in our path to immortality.

One evening, during my stay at Bristol, I visited another Burying-ground, Brunswick-square, because it contains the ashes of an excellent Maiden Aunt, to whom my earliest years are indebted, and who was possessed of good sense, accompanied with unaffected piety. Indeed, my young friend, cemeteries are interesting to the contemplative mind.—

'Tis pleasant in the peaceful, serious hour,

To tread the silent sward that wraps the dead,
Once our companions in the cheerful walks
Of active life-the same ere long

In the dark chambers of profound repose!

All have their kindred here and I HAVE MINE.

TÓ DIE-what is it but to sleep; and sleep,

Nor feel the weariness of dark delay

Through the long night of time, and nothing know
of intervening centuries elapsed,

When thy sweet morn, ETERNITY, begins?
Or else what is it but a welcome change
From worse to better-from a world of pain
To one where flesh at least can nothing feel,

HOTWELLS.

And pain and pleasure have no equal sway ?
What is it but to meet ten thousand friends,
Whose earthly race was finished ere our own,
And be well welcome, where the timorous feet
Fear'd to intrude, and whence no foot returns ?

301

HURDIS.

The Hotwells stand on the banks of the river Avon, about two miles below Bristol. The situation is romantic. At the bottom of a steep rock you see nothing of the house where the water is drank till you almost enter it. A woman hands you the salubrious draught, for which no charge is made, the attendance being paid by subscription. On one side you behold the vessels gliding down the river, whilst, on the other side, you perceive piles of bottles filled with the water, and ready to be conveyed to every part of the world. Its efficacy is felt in consumptive cases, with which our island abounds, arising from the variations of its atmosphere. Cures have been wrought here, whilst other sufferers, falling a prey to the ravages of this disorder, are doomed to the anguish of disappointment:

Scar'd at thy presence, start the train of death,
And hide their whips and scorpions-thee, confused,
Slow fever creeps from; thee, the meager fiend
Consumption flies, and checks his rattling coughs!
Nor youth alone thy pow'r indulgent owns,
Age shares thy blessings, and the tottering frame
By thee supported!

In the chapel belonging to the Hotwells lie interred the remains of Sir James Stonehouse, M. D. the friend and physician of Doddridge and Her

vey. He latterly entered the church, used to preach at All Saints, where I have heard him with pleasure; and from his Letters, published by the Rev. Mr. Steadman, of Shrewsbury, it appears that he discharged with fidelity the duties of the Christian ministry. The following inscription on his monument is from the pen of Miss Hannah More:

Here rests awhile, in happier climes to shine,
The orator, physician, and divine;

'Twas his, like LUKE, the double task to fill,
To heal the natʼral and the moral ill.

You, whose awaken'd hearts his labours blest,
Where ev'ry truth by ev'ry grace was drest;
Oh! let your lives evince that still you feel
Th' effective influence of his fervent zeal.
One spirit rescued from eternal woe
Were nobler fame than marble can bestow,-
That lasting monument will mock decay,
And stand triumphant at the final day! *

Winding up the side of a steep hill, from which there is a tremendous declivity down to the bed of the river, and also a prospect of St. Vincent's rocks, you at last gain the summit, on which stands the charming village of Clifton.

The nu

* It afforded me some gratification to find that my Sketch of Denominations, &c. should have met with this good man's approbation. He recommends it to his Curate, in these flattering terms: "It is a book which no clergyman should be without, being a kind of Pocket Dictionary by which you at once see the tencts of a Papist, Quaker, Sandemanian, &c. I did not know the tenets of many who call themselves Christians, till I got this useful book!" Letters to the Rev. Thomas Sted man, A. M.

merous elegant buildings are chiefly inhabited by the company who frequent the wells. Here also, are splendid hotels; and, for the accommodation of beauty and fashion, the decorations of female dress may be obtained in perfection.

Durham Downs, in the vicinity of Bristol, are pleasant, and frequented by the citizens for the sake of an healthy excursion. Hence is a prospect of Kingroad and of the distant hills of the Principality. At Kingroad lie men of war and merchantmen, destined to distant parts of the world. In the year 1740, an attrocious murder was committed by a Captain of a man of war of the name of Goodyere, upon his own brother; employing two of his men to seize him and drag him down the river, and then strangling him in the cabin! However, they were apprehended, tried, and executed, the men being hung in chains at Kingroad, and the gibbets remained to a very late period. The Goodyeres were uncles of Foote of comic memory.

Before I quit Bristol I must mention two remarkable characters connected with it in the course of the last century.

Richard Savage, the poet and friend of Dr. Samuel Johnson, in his early years, lies buried in this city, close to the Mint, in the church-yard of St. Peter; his grave was pointed out to me, though no stone seems to have been erected to his memory. The incidents of his life are, perhaps, the most remarkable in the annals of biography.

Fixing my eyes on the spot where the remains