LETTER VI.

To M. H

H. 10 Dec. 75.

YOUR two letters of the day before yesterday, and what you faid to me yesterday in my dreffingroom, have drove me mad. To offer to fell out, and take the other ftep to get money for us both, was not kind. You know how fuch tenderness diftracts me. As to marrying me, that you fhould not do upon any account. Shall the man I value be pointed at and hooted for felling himfelf to a Lord, for a commiffion, or fome fuch thing, to marry his caft mistress? My foul is above my fituation.-Befides, I will not take advantage, Mr. H., of what may be only perhaps (excufe me) a youthful paffion. After a more intimate acquaintance with me of a week or ten days, your opinion of me might very much change. And yet—you may love me as fincerely as I

But I will transcribe you a fong which I don't believe you ever heard me fing, though it's my favourite. It is faid to be an old Scots ballad -nor is it generally known that Lady A. L. wrote it. Since we have understood each other, I have never fung it before you, because it is so defcriptive of our fituation-how much more fo fince your cruelly kind propofal of yesterday! I wept, like an infant, over it this morning. AULD

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

The fheep were in the fold, and the cows were all at home, And all the weary world to reft was gone,

When the woes of my heart brought the tear in mine e'e, While my good man lay found by me.

Young Jamie lov'd me well, and he fought me for his bride,
He had but a crown, he had no more befide;

To make the crown a pound, young Jamie went to fea,
And the crown, and the pound, they were both for me.

He had na been gone but a year and a day,

When my father broke his arm, and our cow was stole away; When my mother she fell fick, and my Jamie at the fea, And auld Robin Gray came wooing to me.

My father could na work, and my mother could na spin,
I toiled night and day, but their bread I could na win ;
Auld Rob maintain'd them both, and, with tears in his e'e,
Said, "Jenny, for their fakes, oh! marry me."

My heart it faid no, and I wish'd for Jamie back,

But the wind it blew fore, and his fhip it prov'd a wreck; His fhip prov'd a wreck: ah! why did not Jenny dee? Why was the left to cry" Ah, woe is me!"

My father argu'd fore; though my mother did na speak;
She look'd in my face till my heart was fit to break;
So auld Robin got my hand-but my heart was in the fea,
-And now Robin Gray is goodman to me.

I had na been a wife but of weeks only four,
When fitting right mournfully out at my door,

I faw my Jamie's ghoft, for I could na think 'twas he,
Till he faid, "Jenny, I'm come home to marry thee."

Sore did we weep, and little did we say,

We took but one kiss-and we tore ourselves away;

I wish I was dead, but I am not like to dee,
And, oh! I am young to cry-" Ah, woe is me!"

I gang like a ghost, and I do not care to fpin,
I fain would think on Jamie, but that would be a fin;
I must e'en do my best a good wife to be,

For auld Robin Gray has been kind to me.

My poor eyes will only fuffer me to add, for God's fake, let me fee my Jamie to-morrow. Your name alfo is Jamie.

LETTER

VII.

To Mifs

Huntingdon, 13 Dec. 75.

My life and foul!

BUT I will never more use any preface of this fort-and I beg you will not. A correfpondence begins with dear, then my dear, dearest, my deareft, and fo on, 'till, at laft, panting language toils after us in vain.

No

No language can explain my feelings. Oh M. yesterday, yesterday! Language, thou lieftthere is no fuch word as fatiety, pofitively nó fuch word. Oh, thou beyond my warmest dreams bewitching! what charms! what

But words would poorly paint our joys. When, when?-yet you fhall order, govern every thing. Only remember, I am fure of those we trust.

Are you now convinced that Heaven made us for each other? By that Heaven, by the paradife of your dear arms, I will be only yours!

Have I written fenfe? I know not what I write. This fcrap of paper ('tis all I can find) will hold a line or two more. I muft fill it up to fay that, whatever evils envious fate defign me, after those few hours of yesterday, I never will complain nor murmur.

Misfortune, I defy thee now.-M. loves me, and H.'s foul has its content moft abfolute. No other joy like this fucceeds in unknown fate.

LETTER

To the Same.

VIII.

Huntingdon, 24 Dec. 1775.

TALK not to me of the new year. I am a new man. I'll be fworn to it I am not the fame iden

tical J. H. that I was three months ago. You have created me—yes, I know what I faycreated me anew.

As to thanking you for the blifs I tafte with you to attempt it would be idle. What thanks can exprefs the heaven of heavens

But I will obey you in not giving fuch a loofe to my pen as I gave the day before yesterday. That letter, and the verses it contained, which were certainly too highly coloured, pray commit to the flames. Yet, pray too, as I begged you yesterday, do not imagine I thought lefs chaftely of you because I wrote them. By Heaven, I believe your mind as chafte as the fnow which, while I write, is driving against my window. You know not what I think of you. One time perhaps you may.

The lines I repeated to you this morning, I fend you. Upon my honour they are not mine. I think of them quite as you do. Surely an additional merit in them is, that to the uninitiated, in whom they might perhaps raise improper ideas, they are totally unintelligible.

THIS