"With the assistance of some lighted candles, my guide and I proceeded nearly a quarter of a mile into the mountain through a winding cavern, presenting a succession of hollows of different heights and dimensions. Here a variety of curious natural productions are found on all sides, such as stalactical nodules, consisting of several layers of incrustations folding over each other in distinct coats; the soft argillaceous earth, called lac lunæ ; and some good pendant crystallizations. But my imagination was more interested by a remarkable echo in one of the chambers than by any thing else. The solemn stillness that reigned around gave additional effect to the reverberations of the voice, which came pealing upon the ear, thrown back at different intervals, from the vaults and passages of the cavern. It was impossible to divest the mind of the idea that these gloomy recesses had their invisible inhabitants; and here I first perceived the accuracy and happy propriety of the Celtic prosopopeia for Echo, the Son of the Rock, which was certainly more appropriate to my situation than the Hebrew Beth-Col, the daughter of the voice, or the Imago Vocis of the Latin poets."

The village of Cross, the last stage from Taunton to Bristol, is long and pleasant; on the bridge by which you enter it from Bridgewater stands a slender stone pillar, which has much the appearance of the shaft of a cross. It contains several good inns, and some respectable houses; most of

them, if not all, are well white-washed; the gar、 dens are numerous, and when we saw them, were well stocked both with fruits and flowers.

About a mile beyond Cross, the road climbs a short but steep hill, but the labour of ascending it is amply recompensed by the rich, various, and extensive prospect which opens from its summit. An ample semicircle, bounded by hills, upon which the hemisphere above seems to rest, spreads before the eye of the observer. Within this spacious range, almost every variety of surface, and of English cultivation, is contained. Thick hedges, trees in larger or smaller masses, flats covered with grain, undulating swells bright with verdure, pastures dotted with sheep, the white spires of village churches peeping through the dark foliage, and single habitations upon a smaller or larger scale, scattered through the whole, form a landscape which must gratify every lover of rural scenery; it does not exhibit any peculiarly bold features, but it gives an idea of plenty and comfort, which to the heart of an Englishman is eminently delightful.

The village of Bedminster, through which we now passed, proclaimed, by the superior size of its houses, and the embellishments with which they were surrounded, our approach to some large and opulent town. The distant suburbs of cities, for as such the villages in their immediate vicinity may be considered, always bear these marks of the growing wealth, if not of the rising taste, of

their inhabitants. Glad to retire from the din of commerce, the tainted atmosphere of crowded streets, frequently confined shops and countinghouses, or unwholesome manufactories, the merchant and the wealthy tradesman rush forth, when the hours of business are over, to the salubrious air of the country. In their rural abodes it is that, by degrees, they accumulate the materials of enjoyment. Their houses, their gardens, are embellished with many articles of pleasure and comfort, and sometimes, it must be admitted, the principles of true taste and elegant refinement are never more grossly violated than in these retreats of mere mechanical plodding wealth. Of the inhabitants of Bedminster I know not a single individual, and therefore I cannot be supposed, in these general reflections, to have the most distant reference to any of them.

About eight o'clock we entered the busy and opulent city of BRISTOL: a long drive through many of the streets, and over two of its bridges, brought us to the residence of our affectionate friends in Berkley-square.

You, who so well know what it is to welcome those you love to your own mansion, can easily conceive how we were received at this abode of the frank-hearted U- Tea and supper followed in close order: our young travellers were glad to retire after the first of these regales, and those more advanced did not remain long up after the second. Adieu, my dear friend, you must be

glad, I think, that this long day's journey is come to an end; however, I promise that you shall not have seventy-five miles to travel to-morrow. If you are reading this at the close of a day, may as comfortable slumbers be your portion, as I hope will be enjoyed by me and my party. Believe me ever your's.

LETTER II..

To the Same.

DEAR MADAM,

Bristol, July 9, 1803.

We have now been four days in this seat of business and bustle-in Berkley-square, however, we are witnesses to nothing of the kind; that is, you know, the court end of Bristol; all there is leisure and elegance; three sides of this square, which is erected upon what seems properly a part of Brandon-hill, are completed with houses, whose fronts, of Bath stone, have a pretty uniform apThe fourth side will contain some pearance. good houses which are now building, but it does not seem likely that they will much correspond, except in size, with the rest: the dissimilarity, I think, need not be regretted, as a little of the

"rus in urbe" is thus introduced, and very agree ably breaks the monotony of the other parts. The middle of the square, handsomely railed in, is a large grass-plat, which greatly relieves the whole.

Within doors, our time passes very agreeably; a family of five charming children do credit to the tenderness of their parents, and genuine hospitality enables us fully to enjoy ourselves in apartments in which elegance and comfort are happily united. The carriage of our friend has been an accommodation which, in this sultry season, has been peculiarly grateful; it has whirled us to different, and, comparatively, distant places, and enabled us to gratify with ease the curiosity which travellers all either feel or feign.

Eight years ago I was at Bristol; it was then the reign of war, and still it continues; for the little respite which insatiable ambition has allowed us scarcely deserves the name of peace. Oh, my friend! how melancholy is the thought that human beings, so fitted for all the endearments of social life, so capable of indefinite improvement, and so highly necessary to each other's happiness, should so miserably misapply their talents, make such havock of all their best feelings, and take a savage, unnatural delight in bringing incalculable wretchedness on each other, I have lately been reading some volumes of Mavor's Abridgment of Universal History. I shall wade through it if I can: but I am glad it is no longer; not for its own sake, for I think it, on the whole,