Where, apparently planted at random, the rose
Fills the air with perfume as it blushes and blows.
Or, seated beneath the deep shade of the elm,
Bid fancy and reason, by turns, take the helm:
The volumes of science, attentive, explore,
Or, delighted, the page of the poet turn o'er.
'Tis here we have rambled and chatted away
On themes of all colours, the grave and the gay ;
'Tis here, as she glided the green leaves among ;
I've gaz'd at Eliza, the theme of my song,
And here, so the whispers of hope all declare,
Again I shall ramble, and talk to the fair.

"All hail ye recesses, for friendship so made, The green Chinese gate, and the lofty Arcade. How often in memory's mirror I trace,

When on you I reflect, each affectionate face,
That has greeted my rambles, and bade me take care
Of the sun-beams at noon, or the ev'ning's damp air.
Not a spot in your grounds you can possibly mention,
But is marked as the scene of some friendly attention.
The hall and the parlour, by turns, can attest,
How tenderly Sympathy treated its guest.
Your arms have supported, your voices have cheer'd,
For friendship suggested what gratitude heard.

"Sweet mansion of piety, prudence, and peace!
With each coming day may thy blessings increase.
May the sun as it rises, the night as it falls,
See guardians celestial surrounding thy walls!
May safety and comfort, direction and love,
On each of thy inmates descend from above:
And when each in this earthly sojourn has fulfill'd
The duties and virtues by Providence will'd,

May Mercy and Truth their broad pinions extend,

And bear them to glories that never can end."

You will not be surprised to hear that this part

of our tour has afforded us great pleasure. This

pleasure is now, however, soon to terminate, This is the last letter you will receive from me till we are again settled in our own abode. We shall return the same road that we came, and as that has been already described, I shall neither exercise your patience, nor attempt to gratify your curiosity with any additional account. I am sure you join me in the hope that, as we have passed thus far without any sinister accident, we shall go safely the little way that remains, and be satisfied, for this year at least, without any farther rambling. Believe me, your faithful and affectionate friend, &c.

LETTER XVII.

Sidmouth, October 20, 1803.

ONCE more, my dear Madam, I address you from what, after all my wanderings, I am truly glad to see my own home. To the lover of domestic joys what magic is there in this little word; and how truly are those to be pitied who have no relish for the peaceful, virtuous delights of their own fire-side.

Dulce Domum! charming sound!
What sweet ideas crowd around
When o'er the mind those pictures come,
Which mem'ry sketches far from home.
The glowing fire, the elbow chair,
Those sweet reliefs from cold and care;
The clean-swept hearth; the frugal board;
The shelves with various authors stor'd;
The pratt'ling babes, the cheerful wife,
That sun-shine of domestic life;
A study, where the musing mind
Can intellectual treasure find;
A parlour to receive a friend,
And from severer cares unbend;
A little, flowery, green retreat,
Where health and moderate labour meet;
A respite from the world's vain jars,
Its noise, its nonsense, and its wars-
These, these are things the bosom cheer,
And render Dulce Domum dear.

For some months before it took place, the little tour of which I have given you an account in these letters, was an object of pleasing expectation to us all. That excursion has now been over for a considerable time, and, like all past events, has faded into a sort of vision, the images of which are every day becoming less distinct. All, however, is not forgotten. Memory retains some traces of the objects it presented, and gratitude has added some names to the tablet of friendship, and deepened the lines with which she had formerly engraven others. We have to record the

superintending Providence of our HEAVENLY FATHER through all the stages of our journey-and to look forward, with hope, to the season when, under our own roof, some of our friends, at least, will give us an opportunity of expressing our sense of their kindness.

I shall dedicate the remainder of this closing epistle to a sketch of the place in which, perhaps, I may terminate my earthly pilgrimage.

SIDMOUTH, a small, but rapidly increasing town, lies in the Channel, about midway betwixt Lime and Exmouth, and at the bottom of that vast bay, the extremities of which are Portland and the Start points. It has a bold, open shore, and many of its newest houses are ranged upon the beach, which is defended from the attacks of the ocean by a natural rampart of pebbles, which rises in four or five successive stages from the surface of the sea at low water. With every tide the exterior parts of this shifting wall assume some different situation; are sunk either higher or lower, or are driven to the east or west, according to the strength and direction of the wind. At low water, considerable spaces of fine hard sand are visible-these afford a pleasant walk, but are frequently interrupted by collections of stones, and streams which find their way through the pebbles to their parent oceanin dry weather, however, these streams are very inconsiderable: At the head of this shingly rampart, a broad, commodious walk, which is called The Beach, has been constructed, and furnishes a

delightful promenade. It is nearly a third of a mile in length, is kept well rolled, and furnished. at the extremities, and in some other parts, with convenient double seats, from which either the land or the sea may be contemplated with every advantage. Close to the walk, and about the middle of it, is a tolerably spacious covered retreat, called The Shed, in which, as it is benched all round, and open only to the sea, a most convenient view of that sublime object may at all timesbe obtained. Large parties are frequently chatting in this recess, and the weak invalid here finds a spot in which, defended from every wind but the salubrious south, he can inhale those breezes which so frequently suspend the ravage of disease, pour fresh oil into the lamp of life, and send him back a renovated being to both the cares and the joys of mortality. What a melancholy thought is it, that many of these renovated beings, when the blessing of HEAVEN has recruited their emacìated frames, strung their nerves with fresh vigour, and made them a new gift of existence, go back into society only to repeat former scenes of folly and excess, and finish the climax of their infatuation and ingratitude, by wasting the precious boon which they have obtained.

As a watering-place, Sidmouth, in its natural advantages, yields to none of the retreats of Hygeia. An air mild and salubrious, a soil uncommonly fertile, the purest water continually flowing, and a situation defended from every wind but the