our excellent friend had their happiness at heart, we know what a parent they would have experienced in him, and we will, my dear sister, take care that they shall not suffer by our misfortune, and that his fondest hopes shall not be disappointed. But, to fulfil this sacred promise, it becomes us to take care that the excess of our grief do not put it out of our power to render them service. I entreat you then, my dear sister, not to indulge your grief, to be careful of your health, to think what would be the dreadful consequence of depriving your infants of that care and assistance which they have a right to expect from you. But it is not to your children alone, and to the memory of dear Roget, that you are bound to take the greatest care of your health, but for all your fond relations here in your native country; those relations who have deeply felt all your misfortunes, who have hardly ever dared, since you left them, to indulge any joy, whose greatest pleasures have always been damped with the reflection, that one of those who was entitled to partake them was absent. Yes, indeed, my dear sister, you do owe us something. Hitherto your life has been most unfortunate; what remains of it you have the prospect of spending, not indeed joyfully, but unruffled with tears and anxieties, in a calm and pleasing melancholy. I have a thousand projects to mention to you, but when I reflect that it will be a month before I can have an answer, I dare not mention one of them. Pray write to us immediately. I thought it impossible any thing could add to my affection for you, but the more unfortunate you are, the more

I feel myself to love, to esteem, and respect you. That God may protect you under your misfortunes is the constant prayer of your most affectionate brother,

SAMUEL ROMILLY.

LETTER XXXII.

My dear Sister,

London, June 13. 1783.

I could wish to be constantly with you, and, since that is impossible, at least to write to you every day; but the post, unfortunately, goes from hence but twice a week. What a consoling reflection must it be to you to think how much your tenderness alleviated the misfortunes of our dear friend! without you, how unhappy must have been the last years of his life! It is a comfort even to me to reflect, that, if he had never known me, he would have been less happy than he was. Though his friendship has been to me a source of infinite uneasiness and affliction, I thank God that I was blessed with it; his life was happier, and mine, I am sure, will be better for it. I do not seek to divert my attention from the cause of my sorrows. I know that to be a resource as vain and ineffectual as it is unworthy. I rather consider what is the amount of my loss, and examine what is real and what imaginary in the terrors of death. I know that my dear brother's virtues had made him invulnerable to its sting. I know that he is immortal, I know that he still lives; and I carry the idea so far as to read over all his former letters. I think with myself he is still only in a foreign

country, we shall soon meet again; not so soon, indeed, as we intended; but what can be late that is circumscribed by the limits of life, and what can be distant that lies no farther than the grave? I reflect that my dear brother is now more present with me than ever, that he looks down upon me from Heaven, is the witness of all my actions, knows all that passes in my mind, and sees the sincerity of my affection for him that he will still be the guardian and director of my conduct; and that whenever I am doubtful how to act, I will consider how he would have acted in such a situation, and I shall then be certain always to determine for what is just and virtuous. It is a pleasure to me to reflect that by this means his will be the merit of the laudable actions which I may perform; and that perhaps it will be part of those joys which are to reward his good works, to contemplate their extensive effects, and to see the good fruits of the virtues which his friendship has inspired me with, and to behold his own virtues reviving again in his children, by the happy effects of that wise and judicious education which he had begun, and which he has taught you how to perfect. I do not exhort you, my dear Sister, to dismiss all sad reflections, but rather to turn them to another object. To think of your friends in this country, to think how your return among them will revive and cheer them. Think of our dear parents, and comfort them in their old age. Think of your sweet children, and bring them amongst protectors who are anxious to devote themselves to their care and service. When,

my dear Kitty, will you set out upon your journey hither? to perform it alone must be painful; I will come to bear you company. I will be with you by the end of July, or sooner if you desire it, though it would be inconvenient to me. All the months of August, September, and October, shall be devoted wholly to your service. If you choose, we will return to London immediately; or if you prefer it, I will stay with you for some time at Lausanne or any other place, till the hottest weather has passed over. Above all things, let me entreat you to be careful of your health, think of your children, and remember that at their age the loss of a mother is much greater than of a father; think what endearing duties you have to discharge. We shall certainly join our dear friend again soon, (for what are a few years, what is a whole life compared to that eternity which we shall pass with him?) but let us endeavour, first, to have done all that we know will afford him pleasure, and not to leave unperformed those offices for which he would chiefly have desired to live. In the midst of our affliction, and under the hard lot which has befallen us, we will find out serious, nay melancholy pleasures, which might be envied by those who seem more the favourites of fortune. Once more let me entreat you to be careful of your health, and not to cause another affliction to your dearest friends, greater than they will be able to bear, at least, if I may judge of their hearts by that of your most affectionate brother,

SAMUEL ROMILLY.

Since you left me, I have not known what in the world to do with myself. The first morning,

*The following account of Mr. Baynes is extracted from a letter of Dr. Parr, dated March 2. 1820. See antè, p. 68.

"John Baynes was born at Skipton, in Yorkshire, where his father was a prosperous attorney. He was a member of Trinity College; and, at a time of life unusually early, he gained the highest, or nearly the highest, honours, mathematical and classical. He had great ardour of mind, great singleness of heart, great variety of research. He was an antiquary as well as a scholar. He was for a time suspected of having written the celebrated Epistle to Sir William Chambers: he disclaimed the authorship, but confessed that he superintended the press. He had a very fine commanding person, the tones of his voice were impressive, his dress was at all times becoming, his manners were unaffected, and yet dignified. He was now and then fond of paradoxes, and would defend them resolutely, when they had all the properties of improbability and even absurdity. He was a steady advocate for civil and religious liberty.

"John Baynes was perhaps the most intimate friend Sir S. Romilly had in early life; and in consequence of their connexion, my own acquaintance at Warwick with Sir Samuel began at some assizes or sessions. Sir Samuel spoke of him with affection and admiration ; and doubtless, if he had lived, he would have been a bright luminary in the literature and politics of England. He had not been called to the bar, but practised at Gray's Inn, I believe, as a conveyancer. He died, to my sorrow, of a fever; and his resignation at the approach of death was worthy of his intellectual, moral, and religious excellencies. I wrote his epitaph in Latin."