that F. B. had not acted from regard to him, but from hatred to me. You must observe, I dealt openly with the landlord; told him my reason for leaving him, but acquitted him of all blame. He was sorry to lose a lodger, but acquiesced in the justice of my apology for quitting him.

War, it is said, is to break out: I feel myself so curious to know the particulars of the campaign, and so little afraid of the French, that I propose to go to Munich, provided Klenau does not attack them here; but it is more probable that our neighbourhood will be the scene of hostilities. Write to me at all events-for God's sake do ; your idea is continually in my mind; the confidence with which I repose upon your regard, and the prospect of enjoying your society, is the main prop of my happiness. God knows, if I did not expect to be yet blessed with that good fortune, I should have little to console me here.

Farewell: I need not wish you happiness, for you have it already in your own disposition. Think of me, as my sentiments entitle me to share your regard; for none can more strongly appreciate your value than yours most sincerelyT. C.

298

CHAPTER XIII.

PILGRIMAGE CONTINUED.

AFTER the lapse of more than two months' silence, during which he had been a prey to many painful conjectures as to its cause, his suspense was most happily removed by the long-expected letters, which are thus acknowledged:

TO MR. RICHARDSON.

MY DEAR AND valued Friend,

RATISBON, Sept. 25, 1800.

The arrival of your blessed letter has elevated my spirits beyond description. I feel as if raised from the ground-where I seemed to lie maimed and neglected— to all the delicious sensations of pleasure, which arise from self-congratulation upon the possession of an amiable and constant friend. Why did I ever suppose your silence a symptom of that severe misfortune the abatement of your regard—which would embitter my present life, and deprive me of the power of dreaming about happiness in future? Forgive me, Richardson: forgive what the distress of my heart suggested at a time when it was deprived of every comfort. I could have supported sickness and solitude, or what is worse than solitude, the partial intercourse I have had with degraded and malicious beings;

*

Alluding to certain persons-one of whom was a Scotch monk-who had misrepresented him.

but I could not support the privation of all intercourse with the heart that seemed almost singly capable of cherishing my friendship, or of imparting consolation to my distress.

From the world at large, I will always hide my emotions-weakness it will perhaps be called. Even to the civil half-friendly-half-good and half-bad-half-acquaintances, half-friends, I will ever be reserved; but to such as you, no thought that affects my peace or my unhappiness shall be dubiously expressed. I know you. I pride myself upon discovering a being as uncommon among his species, as a diamond among mines. I have made all my heart your own; and I am too proud of my skill in human nature to retract my admiration for I assure you it is no foible of mine to admire, to value, to love, or express my regard indiscriminately. Believe me, then, when I say, that for many days before this-when your welcome handwriting met my eyes-I was reduced to a state of imbecility which deprived me of that last consolation, which my fever has hardly spared, the perusal of a few books. I knew not where to turn the roads and weather hardly admitted of long walks. I read a sentence; but it was merely the letters, for my mind was too distressed to follow the sense. I turned to Sir J. Ingleby, the only Englishman in the place. He has shown me attention, and deserves my gratitude; but alas! he does not know me.-I found no pleasure, either in society or alone.

Your letter has wrought a charm. Oh, Richardson! you see me but a poor dependent being, who cannot support, with common fortitude, what others would account. but the trifling ills of life. How the censorious and hardhearted world would have laughed to have seen me in tears, when I turned over the little case that contains your

last gift! What a weak, contemptible child I should have seemed, when, unable to draw happiness from any store of my own creation-unable to read, to write, to walk, to speak, or even to think of any subject but the separation of my friends, and the want of your society. The savage herd of my fellow-beings shall never have occasion to despise me for discovering such a weakness. I tell it to none but yourself; for I never sighed for the want of their society-it was for yours.

Of Germany I shall say little at present. I can only remark, in general, with the old and hackneyed saying, that human nature is the same in all countries: some good-some bad. No, no, no! Mr. Old Maxim; all bad -all selfish and malicious-all degraded and despicable. What is to be said of the chosen few, such as thou, my dear Richardson-the Grahames and the Hills? Oh, it is true, there are such-at least there may be beings of that description among the millions of existence. But why talk of that class as a part of the human race? No, no; human nature I have seen in the true light-in the proper attitude I mean in the glorious employment of cutting throats-that is the scene for man to act in! Leave the

vile creatures to their wars, their superstitions, and their law-suits! Are not we unlike them? Yes; I am so full of hatred to them, and regard for you, that I constitute a separation, in my fancy, between them and ourselves.

Pleasures yet await us in Germany, unconnected with the vile herds that encumber existence-the delights of that sublime scenery which, in Germany, is yet unimpaired by the impertinent intrusion of human improvement! Since my sickness, I have explored new and wonderful regions of romantic scenery, on the Danube and its tributary streams. Formerly I talked of scenery from pictures and imagination. But now I feel elevated to an enthu

siasm-which only wants your society to be boundless— when I scour the woods of gigantic oak, the bold and beautiful hills, the shores and the rocks upon the Danube.

Some days of this harvest have been truly fine. The verdure has revived from the heat of summer, which before had entirely parched it. What think you of valleys scoured by wild deer, lined with woods of rich and sublime growth, and scented with wild plums and Indian beans? The myrtle and vine, that would starve in our bleak climate, grow wild upon the rocks, and twine most beautifully round the caves, where the wild deer hide themselves, inaccessible to the dogs and the hunters? I saw an instance of this myself: a poor animal flew up the heights, close to my path, dived into the rocks, and neither search nor scrutiny, nor crying nor shouting, could dislodge her. The huntsman and his pack returned from this place, which I have christened the "rock of mercy rupes misericordiæ. I have written some Latin lines upon it, which I may show you, some day, in my portfolio.

Williams has written to me, much to my satisfaction. I shall write to him to-morrow. How is Oswald? Of Thomson-that refined, elegant, superior spirit-you know my idea. idea. He is one of the elect. Give him my warmest, nay, enthusiastic compliments. He is alone, of all Burns' friends, worthy to have been the friend of Burns. And now to conclude with remembrances :-The Grahames and the Hills-Do you see them often? I know you do. Do you wonder that I rave of the two cousins-M. G. and I. H.? I never thought I loved them so well as since I have left Britain. The same as yourself, they have twined round my heart; and if I had a thousand sisters, I could not love them better. I could weep to think upon the happiness I shall enjoy, when we visit them together!

Think of our journeys thro' Bavaria-of our common