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in being present to danger, which raises us in our own esteem.

The particulars you give me of the Irish character correspond with my own observations. These northern Irish, however, are the flower of the nation, and may compare, as far as I can learn, with any people of any country. The southern Irish are a very different race; though they will, no doubt, improve, now that their shackles are struck off.

As far as I have seen of the Irish nation, they are a people of strong sensibilities. In the language of Dr. Darwin, their sensations are strong in themselves, and strong in proportion to their volitions. They are impressible in a high degree; but their self-command is not equal to their impressibility. . Belfast and the North excepted, Ireland is, I presume, less cultivated both in its soil and its inhabitants than England. But England is a man, and past the middle age ; Ireland is a youth, and perhaps only a boy.

We have nothing very new here in our domestic situation. We grow more and more tired of the war, and with more and more reason. In the last seven or eight months, Liverpool

has lost fifty-eight sail of square-rigged vessels, amounting to eighteen thousand tons of shipping! The underwriters here and at Lloyd's are the greatest sufferers; and so much enraged are they, that a meeting in London is talked of for the purpose of addressing the King to displace Lord Chatham.

In the mean time the post of to-day brings a rumour which is not generally credited, but which I am inclined to believe, of the fall of Robespierre and his party.

Adieu. Your affectionate friend,

JAMES CURRIE.

No. 45.

Liverpool, February 16. 1795.

Sunday evening
MY DEAR FRIEND,

I am such a Martha, busy about so many things, and my correspondence is at the present moment so multifarious and so discordant, that I absolutely forget to-day what I wrote yesterday.

One thing I did this morning, which I shall remember for some time I witnessed the last

melancholy duties performed to A-rH_ d. I saw the good old man descend quietly into his silent vault, “ where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." One might reflect on this subject for many pages. What so common as death? yet what so deeply interesting ?

Shall I tell you how my mind was employed as I looked after him into the grave ? There he lay in a leaden coffin fifteen feet under ground. He occupied the first floor in this hall of death; his wife and sons are to fill the upper stories. “ How,” thought I, “my excellent old friend, are thou to heave off this immense load from thy now cold, but once warm bosom, when the springs of life are again to flow, and the grave to give up its dead? But the

But the power that gave life, and the power that must restore it, when it is restored, will make the passage from thy vault easy. He that has fixed in his mind that the dead shall rise, will find no difficulty in their ascent from the dust.”

Settling this point in my mind, I began to reflect that this venerable patriarch occupied his proper place in the vault where he lay. He was the oldest of his family, and he had the post of honour: he entered first into the house of death. He did not find his place pre-occupied by his children ; they yet survive him, and will be restored to him in the course of time, and perhaps in the order of nature !

Passing from personal to more general feelings, I began to reflect with how many fathers the order of nature is at this wasteful period reversed. Alas! the definition of war given by Thales the Milesian is too true; -“ In peace the sons bury their fathers; in war the fathers bury their sons.”

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If you are not tired of my melancholy musings, perhaps you will find an opportunity of making me a return in kind.

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Your affectionate friend,

JAMES CURRIE.

No. 46.

Liverpool, November 14. 1797. MY DEAR MRS. GREG,

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I have been dining with your husband and Mr. Warre at Mr. Ewart's, and they are coming to sup here. I have a short interval even after seeing several patients, and I devote it to you.

When your sister pants for the words of the wise, as the hart for water, she does not, I hope, refer to me. True, I might be flattered by such a compliment; but the melancholy nature of my forebodings would give her a degree of pain that I should be sorry to communicate to her, whatever self-complacency her opinion of my wisdom might awaken.

Alas, for poor Ireland! her country. Look at its geography, and see the indelible character of its fate. There are occasionally gleams of humanity and justice in the conduct of nations towards each other : but, on the whole, passion, not interest, is the principle of action; and force, not justice, the means it employs.

Look at Ireland — an inferior island in point of extent, in the neighbourhood of a larger one. What is the consequence? The inhabitants of the larger island, instigated by ambition and avarice, subject her by brutal force; and founding their empire upon injustice, of necessity maintain it by injustice.

Is this strange ? Not at all: the geography of the terraqueous globe, as you revolve it before you, will point out a similar fate as the lot of every country similarly situated. The advantage of particular situations has enabled nations, comparatively small, to maintain their inde

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