We spent a quiet evening at home, and so passed to me this holiday from perpetual dissipation.

July 6th.-Went in the evening to Miss Lydia White's. She is one of those melancholy spectacles, in point of her bodily circumstances, which is at once so painful and so salutary to contemplate. Immovable from dropsy, with a swollen person and an emaciated face, she is placed on an inclined plane raised high upon a sofa, which put me in mind of the corpse of the late Queen of Spain at Rome, in the church of the Santa Maria Novella. But even under this calamity she has many blessings-a comfortable house, and the attentions of the world, which are pleasant even when they are mingled with the alloy of knowing that they are paid as a price to obtain selfish amusement and gratification. What more solid advantages she may enjoy I cannot say, because she is a stranger to me. There is something, also, pleasant, in the reflection that the world, even the gay world, do not totally neglect those who are about to leave it. Oh yes, there is more of good mingled with the bad, even here below, than this world and its inhabitants are often given credit for.

Mr. and Mrs. F, Lord and Lady Charlemont, Sir John Copley and his beautiful wife, so like one of Leonardo Da Vinci's pictures, Lady D-, &c., composed the coterie of the evening, which was peculiarly agreeable.

July 7th.-Spent the first part of this day in a disagreeable manner, trying to mediate between two persons who are at variance. The result unsatisfactory. The details too long to put down on paper, so I omit them, and commence by speaking of a delightful dinner party at Miss Lydia White's. A scene of a very different kind to that in which I had spent the two foregoing evenings. Lady D, Miss Fw, Mr. Moore, Sir K. K. P, Mr. Sharpe, Major Denham, and ourselves, constituted the party. Major Denham is a great traveller, who has been farther into the inte

rior of Africa than any previous traveller, and his descriptions of deserts, and skies, and camels, were very vivid, and carried me with him in idea on his pilgrimage. The tranquil patience of the camels-their quiet submission to the inevitable suffering of their livestheir obedience and humility-are exquisite pictures of the virtues of the brute creation, and are deserving of man's imitation. Major Denham's description also of the pitching of their tents, when the travellers halt for the night-the silent calm of the scene-the vast ocean of sand, in which not even an insect dwells,-the well by which they halt, and to which the travellers of the trackless desert look for life-the canopy of starry heavens spread out above all-combined, as Major Denham said, to form one of the most sublime pictures that could be imagined.

When Major Denham had concluded his interesting account of his travels, I turned to listen to Mr. Moore and Mr. Sharpe, who were talking of Sheridan and Curran, and mingling the sparkle and acumen of their own minds with the transcript they drew of others. This rendered their conversation highly interesting. Whilst hearing Major Denham describe the sublime scenes of nature in which he had been living, I felt a strong desire to visit those places: but when I heard the brilliant and intellectual conversation of Mr. Moore and Mr. Sharpe, I thought, who would not prefer to hear such a flow of intellect, rather than even the refreshing sound of waters in a desert? But the fact is, it is the variation of human life which gives it its highest zest; it is the alternation of rest and labour-of contemplation and action-and above all, is it not the contentment which arises from a well-regulated mind, that gilds every season and every scene with a feeling of self-satisfaction which is unknown where this does not reside?

In speaking of Sheridan, Mr. Moore observed, that it was curious to see what pains he took to produce the wit which seemed to dart with such electric swiftness, whereas all he uttered was previously polished, filed, and purified. He mentioned having many pages illustrative of this fact to put into his life of Sheridan

which, he said, he thought was useful for all composers to see. "Yes," rejoined Mr. Sharpe, "I remember his father telling me that there was only one quality more extraordinary in his son than his application, and the pains he gave himself to bring whatever he undertook to perfection: it is," said he, " the pains he takes to hide it."

After dinner Moore sang. Many, many years have passed since I heard him. The notes of the bird are as sweet as ever-perhaps not quite so full-but the fire and the sweetness are not impaired. He stands alone in this accomplishment, or rather sits like some chorister of spring, on a flowery bush, gifted with perpetual youth of feeling and of fancy. His melancholy is never more than tender, let him strive to mourn how he may; and his mirth is never quite exempt from sentiment. When any other hand attempts to strike his lyre, it fails; when any other voice tries to sound his reed, it fails also. It is not singing; there is none of the skill of the mere mechanic in the art: it is poetry; the distinct enunciation, the expression, the nationality of his genius, which will ever remain an inimitable gift-when heard, delighted in, and never to be forgotten.

She is very

July 10th.--I drove to Lady D-'s. fascinating, and I know not why. Surely if any one were to ask a gift of the fairies, it would be fascination. Saw little Lady in whom there would be no fault to be found, were this world all.

-9

The same

July 11th.-Dined at Lord L-'s. nearly as at Miss White's; but minus the traveller, and with the addition of the K-t of K. The latter gives me the idea of a person hiding a dark spirit under sunny brow. But it is wrong to give way to such groundless impressions of character, and I check them; yet they will not sometimes be effaced. Notwithstanding a fine dinner, (not a good one,) a charming house, and a kindly host, the whole thing was not as it was at Miss White's, even though Moore sang.

I do not know what to think of Comte and Comtesse

He impresses me with being good-thoroughly good. She is piquante, in an odd brusque way. I think she has warm feelings too; but she has seen much of the world, and probably distrusts it. There is sense and sweetness in her eyes; but I could not fathom her, and I do not know if it is worth while to do so with all new acquaintance. Yet the surface of things alone never satisfies me.

Moore sang "The Parting of the Ships." One sees the waves dancing, and the distant sail; and then it nears, and there is the greeting, and the short-lived joy of speaking to another floating world full of human creatures; and then the parting again, each to sail over the lonely ocean! How very true it is to nature! how thrilling to those who have witnessed the scene! The other song which he sang was "The Lovers and the Watchman;" the one recalling reality and wo-the other forgetting there are such things annexed to time, and even time itself, till day breaks, and the whole illusion vanishes!

These are the pictures of song-El Cantar che nel animà si sente.

is

I received a letter from Mr. S———.

"Dear: Though one of my eyes is swelled like a gooseberry after a rainy day, and consequently writing very uncomfortable, yet I am resolved to obey your commands, though they should convert me into a Cupid or a Belisarius. But I fear you will deem me a bird of ill omen, as to your first commission.

stands in

"You ask me in what estimation Lord the world. Alas! I cannot say much for him, but refer you to the memorial Horace Walpole hath left of him. You make me blush when you are so condescending as to make me such flattering eulogiums on my epistolary genius. To speak with sincerity, I never piqued myself on that score; for I consider it so elevated a talent to have the genius of good letter-writing, that I have never attempted to gain the steep height of that fame. The next best style to an artificial quality of excellence in that

line, I think, is to write naturally; and nature has always some merit, if she is suffered to have her free will. Affectation is never more tiresome and ridiculous than in a letter. Madame De Sevigné was the best letter-writer that ever existed. I would rank Swift and Lord Chesterfield next. Voltaire to me is charming; but then I suspect he studied his epistles, as Lord Orford certainly did, and so had little merit. Heloise wrote beautifully in the old time; but we are very poor, both in England and Scotland, as to such matters. Pray make for answer to your fair friend, who seeks autographs, that I will do the little in my power to obey her commands; but that, I fear, will be very little.

"As to my own wretched stuff, I am sure, dear Lady

was laughing at me, which is cruel enough. Tell her not to pour ink upon a drowned mouse. 'Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,' as that poor old beau, Sir

so movingly quoted the other night in the House of Commons. Though my memory is greatly impaired by complaints of the stomach, which sometimes for months make me 'sleep as sound as a mouse in a cat's ear,' and have delivered me up to blue devils-fiends which never set claw in my mind when I had much better reasons for discomfort-I am not yet brought to that sad pass to have forgot Lady --. Pray tell her that I often think, and always with wonder, of nature's prodigality towards her. Extraordinary beauty, a genius that would have made an ugly woman handsome, and an air and manner that would have captivated any heart! Indeed I have always thought of her with surprise, and, allow me to add, a little vanity too. Her goodness to me in former times is one of my recollective cordials. That remembrance can never be smothered by my horrid extinguisher, a flannel nightcap. Nay, the restless claws which I mentioned above, can never efface it from my memory.

"But now to return to business. (How I hate the ugly word!) I think I once had the honour of sending you from Oxford some notices which I had collected concerning the family of principally, if I re