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Hannah More to Martha More—A. Royal Wedding.

am as to the publication of letters, and that I cannot make any positive engagement; but if, when I get to Cowslip Green, I should find, in looking them over, that any are quite disencumbered of private history, private characters, &c., I probably shall not withhold those in my possession; but I am persuaded that, after they are reduced as much as will be necessary, there will be little left for publication.

I dined one day at Admiral Gambier's, my kindly-attached friend with whom I spent so many pleasant days at Teston, to meet Sir Charles Middleton, who really brings a comfortable account of Mrs. Bouverie, and I begin to take hope about her.

The "Morning Chronicle" and other pious newspapers have labored to throw such a stigma on the association for the better observation of Sunday, that the timid great are sheering off, and very few, indeed, have signed. It has, however, led to so much talk and discussion on the subject as to produce a very considerable effect, and a number of high people have said, that though they will not bind themselves in form, they will conform to the spirit of the resolution. I doubt, however, whether those who show a timidity so little creditable to them, will do much. The Duchess-Dowager of Beaufort, with her usual kindness to me, said if I wished she would certainly sign, otherwise she thought such an old woman could add no credit to it; but I suggested that her high rank might attract others. Friday I dined at the Bishop of London's, and spent the evening at Gloucester House. I know not whether it comes under the act of treason or misprision of treason, to go to a royal house in colors, for pecple are in such deep mourning as to wear black handkerchiefs and gloves. It is not, however, universal; for, at a small party on Saturday at Mr. M. Montagu's, many were in colors. I met

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Hannah More to her Sister-Funeral of Garrick.

there Lord St. Helens, Mr. King, the American Minister, and . others of that stamp.

I was much affected at the death of poor Mason. The Bishop of London was just reading us a sonnet he had sent him on his seventy-second birthday, rejoicing in his unimpaired strength and faculties; it ended with saying that he had still a muse able to praise his Saviour and his God, when the account of his death came. It was pleasing to find his last poetical sentiments had been so devout. I would that more of his writings had expressed the same strain of devotion, though I have no doubt of his having been piously disposed; but the Warburtonian school was not favorable to a devotional spirit. I used to be pleased with his turn of conversation, which was rather of a peculiar cast.

I have been meeting Mr. Smelt, who, at seventy-two, is come up to equip himself for entering into the military. There is patriotism for you! I dined yesterday with Mrs. Goodenough, the accomplished sister of the speaker.


Hannah More to her Sister.

ADELPHI, Feb. 2d, 1779.

We (Miss Cadogan and myself) went to Charing-cross to see the melancholy procession. Just as we got there, we received a ticket from the Bishop of Rochester to admit us into the abbey. No admittance could be obtained but under his hand. We hurried away in a hackney-coach, dreading to be too late. The bell of St. Martin's and the abbey gave a sound that smote upon my very soul. When we got to the cloisters we found multi

Hannah More to her Sister-Funeral of Garrick.

tudes striving for admittance. We gave our ticket, and were let in, but unluckily we ought to have kept it. We followed the man, who unlocked a door of iron, and directly closed it upon us and two or three others, and we found ourselves in a tower, with a dark winding staircase, consisting of half a hundred stone steps. When we got to the top there was no way out; we ran down again, called, and beat the door till the whole pile resounded with our cries. Here we stayed half an hour in perfect agony; we were sure it would be all over; nay, we might never be let out: we might starve; we might perish. At length our clamors brought an honest man-a guardian angel I then thought him. We implored him to take care of us, and get us into a part of the abbey whence we might see the grave. He asked for the Bishop's ticket: we had given it away to the wrong person, and he was not obliged to believe we ever had one; yet he saw so much truth in our grief, that, though we were most shabby, and a hundred fine people were soliciting the same favor, he took us under each arm, carried us safely through the crowd, and put us in a little gallery directly over the grave, where we could see and hear every thing as distinctly as if the abbey had been a parlor. Little things sometimes affect the mind strongly. We were no sooner recovered from the fresh burst of grief, than I cast my eyes, the first thing, on Handel's monument, and read the scroll in his hand, "I know that my Redeemer liveth." Just at three the great doors burst open, with a noise that shook the roof; the organ struck up, and the whole choir, in strains only less solemn than the "archangel's trump," began Handel's fine anthem. The whole choir advanced to the grave, in hoods and surplices, singing all the way; then Sheridan, as chief mourner; then the body (alas! whose body?) with ten noblemen and gen

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Hannah More to her Sister-Funeral of Garrick.

tlemen, pall-bearers; then the rest of the friends and mourners ; hardly a dry eye-the very players, bred to the trade of counterfeiting, shed genuine tears.

As soon as the body was let down the bishop began the service, which he read in a low but solemn and devout manner. Such an awful stillness reigned, that every word was audible. How I felt it! Judge if my heart did not assent to the wish that the soul of our dear brother now departed was in peace. And this is all of Garrick! Yet a very little while, and he shall "say to the worm, Thou art my brother; and to corruption, Thou art my mother and sister." So passes away the fashion of this world. And the very night he was buried, the playhouses were as full, and the Pantheon was as crowded, as if no such thing had happened; nay, the very mourners of the day partook of the revelries of the night-the same night, too!

As soon as the crowd was dispersed, our friend came to us with an invitation from the bishop's lady, to whom he had related our disaster, to come into the deanery. We were carried into her dressing room, but being incapable of speech, she very kindly said she would not interrupt such sorrow, and left us; but sent up wine, cakes, and all manner of good things, which was really well-timed. I caught no cold, notwithstanding all I went through.

On Wednesday night we came to the Adelphi-to this house! She bore it with great tranquillity; but what was my surprise to see her go alone into the chamber and bed in which he had died that day fortnight. She had a delight in it beyond expression. I asked her the next day how she went through it. She told me very well; that she first prayed with great composure, then went and kissed the dear bed, and got into it with a sad pleasure.

Hannah More to her Sister-Evening with the Turkish Ambassador.


Hannah More to her Sister.

LONDON, May 10th, 1786.

I hope our engagements are now pretty well drawing to a close. I was engaged the last four days to Lady Bathurst, Lady Amherst, Lady Cremorne, and Lady Mount Edgecombe. I went through three of them manfully, coughing and creaking with great success.

Sir Joshua is doing a picture for the Empress of Russia, but I do not think he has chosen his subject happily, and so I ventured to tell his friend Burke the other night, though he warmly defended him. The empress left the subject to him, and desired to have a capital work of his in her collection. The story he has taken is Hercules strangling the young serpents. I think he might have chosen better than that stale piece of mythology. Mr. Walpole suggested to Sir Joshua an idea for a picture, which he thought would include something honorable to both nations—the scene Deptford,and the time when the Czar Peter was receiving a ship-carpenter's dress in exchange for his own, to work in the dock. This would be a great idea, and much more worthy of the pencil of the artist than nonsensical Hercules.

I have always had a great curiosity to converse with a disciple of Mahomet, and it was gratified the other day by my being invited to meet the Turkish ambassador. His suite, I think, consisted of six Mussulmans. They took their coffee sitting cross-legged on the floor. I confined my attention entirely to his excellency, who was placed next to me on the sofa, and did not sit cross-legged. His dragoman is a very sensible, agreeable person, and speaks all languages. The ambassador,

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