finest verdure, and partly raised above the groves that surrounded them; the dark plains and meadows of a grayish colour, where the sheep were feeding at large; in short, the view of the streams and rivers, convinced us that there was not a single useless or idle word in the above-mentioned description; but that it was a most exact and lively representation of nature. Thus will this fine passage, which has always been admired for its elegance, receive an additional beauty for its exactness. After we had walked, with a kind of poetical enthusiasm, over this enchanted ground, we returned to the village. The poet's house was close to the church: the greatest part of it has been pulled down, and what remains belongs to an adjacent farm. I am informed that several papers, in Milton's own hand, were found by the gentleman who was last in possession of the estate. The tradition of his having lived there is current among the villagers: one of them showed us a ruinous wall that made part of his chamber; and I was much pleased with another, who had forgotten the name of Milton, but recollected him by the title of "The Poet." It must not be omitted that the groves near this village are famous for nightingales, which are so elegantly described in "II Pensieroso." Most of the cottage-windows are overgrown with sweet. briers, vines, and honeysuckles; and that Milton's habitation had the same rustic ornament, we may conclude from his description of the lark bidding him good-morrow: Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, for it is evident that he meant a sort of honey. suckle by the eglantine, though that word is com monly used for the sweet-brier, which he could not mention twice in the same couplet. If I ever pass a month or six weeks at Oxford in the summer, I shall be inclined to hire and repair this venerable mansion, and to make a festival for a circle of friends in honour of Milton, the greatest scholar, as well as the sublimest poet, that our country ever produced. Such an honour will be less splendid, but more sincere and respect. ful, than all the pomp and ceremony on the banks of the Avon. I have the honour to be, &c. WILLIAM JONES. DESCRIPTIVE LETTERS. The Hon. Horace Walpole to G. Montagu, Esq. No, I cannot be so false as to say I am glad you are pleased with your situation. You are so apt to take root, that it requires ten years to dig you out again when you once begin to settle. As you go pitching your tent up and down, I wish you were still more a Tartar, and shifted your quarters perpetually. Yes, I will come and see you; but tell me first, when do your duke and duchess travel to the north. I know he is a very amiable lad, and I do not know that she is not as amiable a laddess, but I had rather see their house comfort. ably when they are not there. I perceive the deluge fell upon you, before it reached us. It began here but on Monday last, and then rained near eight-and-forty hours without intermission. My poor hay has not a dry thread to its back. I have had a fire these three days. In short, every summer one lives in a state of mutiny and murmur, and I have found the reason: it is because we will affect to have a summer, and we have no title to any such thing. Our poets learnt their trade of the Romans, and so adopted the terms of their masters. They talk of shady groves, purling streams, and cooling breezes, and we get sore throats and agues with attempting to realize these visions. Master Damon writes a song, and invites Miss Chloe to enjoy the cool of the evening, and not a bit have we of any such thing as a cool evening. Zephyr is a north east wind, which makes Damon button up to the chin, and pinches Chloe's nose till it is red and blue; and then they cry, this is a bad summer, as if we ever had any other. The best sun we have is made of Newcastle coal, and I am determined never to reckon upon any other. We ruin ourselves with inviting over foreign trees, and make our houses clamber up hills to look at prospects. How our ancestors would laugh at us, who knew there was no being comfortable, unless you had a high hill before your nose, and a thick warm wood at your back! Taste is too freezing a commodity for us, and, depend upon it, will go out of fashion again. There is indeed a natural warmth in this country, which, as you say, I am very glad not to enjoy any longer. I mean the hothouse in St. Stephen's Chapel. My own sagacity makes me very vain, though there was very little merit in it. I had seen so much of all parties, that I had little esteem left for any; it is most indifferent to me who is in or who is out, or which is set in the pillory, Mr. Wilkes or my Lord Mansfield. I see the country going to ruin, and no man with brains enough to save it. That is mortifying; but what signifies who has the undoing of it? I seldom suffer myself to think on the subject: my patriotism could do no good, and my philosophy can make me be at peace. I am sorry that you are likely to lose your poor cousin, Lady Hinchinbrook; I heard a very bad account of her when I was last in town. Your letter to Madame Roland shall be taken care of; but as you are so scrupulous of making me pay postage, I must remember not to overcharge you, as I can frank my idle letters no longer! therefore, good night! Yours ever, H. WALPOLE. From H. More to her sister. Adelphi, Feb. 2, 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 multitudes 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 were no way out; we ran down again, called, and beat the door till the whole pile resounded with our cries. Here we staid 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 clamours 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 favour, 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 parlour. 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 noblenien and gentlemen, 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 |