perfect paradise, and the vale of Dee is more like fairy-land than real earth and water. Mr. Price's seat, at Bryxypys, surpasses all I have seen yet. To Ellesmere-Bridgewater arms. The Earl of B. has a great estate here. The mere very beautiful. Dine, and go on to Shrewsbury. Country changes, and becomes comparatively ugly. To the Lion inn, at Shrewsbury. Sunday-drive through a lovely country, to Battlefield church, five miles, on the very site of the battle ground where Harry Percy's spur became cold; mound of the slain. Parish clerk and wife true English cottagers. Sunday school of clean, fine children. Rev. Mr. Williams, of Battlefield, preaches to a congregation of rustics a truly evangelical sermon. Church perfectly clean; rush mats to kneel on. How different from Chester cathedral. Only equipage a single "taxed cart." Mr. Williams preached at Effington in the evening. Returned the same road to Shrewsbury; ascended Lord Hill's column-most heavenly view. Remember that I am now on the Severn, and turn to Gray's Letters. Leave the Lion, and my friend Bourne, the head waiter, and the truly respectable landlady, with regret I hope on all sides, and go on, with sleek, fine horses, and clean chaise, and obliging driver, to Ironbridge, thirteen miles, where I changed chaise and horses, and crossing the Severn a second time, over the bridge of one arch, ascended a mountainous hill on the other side, through Madely market. These are the greatest iron works (Colebrooke Dale) in England. To Bridgeworth, seven miles, to sup and sleep. This town pleases me more than any I have seen before or since. It is old, clean, pleasant, romantic, with no commercial, manufacturing, or fashionable taint about it. Cheltenham sickened me of the last.

Monday, 15th-wound round the high hill of red stone; stopped; ascended to the ruin of the castle and the church; ludicrous epitaph; returned to the chaise, and completed our descent to the Severn, "the very principal light and capital feature of my journey," which I again crossed. Stopped at a small house of call to beg an idle pin. Old man and wife show me their cows; their tenderness to the motherless lamb, and pity of me. Their gratitude to their cow, which, said the dame, "when my house was burnt, maintained our whole family, old and unsightly as she looks, but making me pounds of butter a week."

Cætera desunt.

Monday, past 12, May 27, 1822.

MY DEAR BET-When, a few minutes ago, I wrote "cetera desunt," as I folded my letter which young Mr. Hammond waited to the last minute to take to Liverpool, I did not know that the beginning, as well as the conclusion, was wanting. I now inclose it to Mr. H., with a request that he will put the two under one cover, and address it to your father-as he promised to do with the first-for it

was to avoid exposing your name to strangers, that I got him to take the letter. He carries a map of the city, in which the new improvements are laid down; with this, and the Ambulator, and the Pictures of London (all at Roanoke), and Smith's English Atlas (also there), you can travel with me without once mistaking your way, and, I hope. pleasantly, as well as easily.

I left the old farmer (Evans) and his dame (for he has a small farm under Mr. Whittemore, member for the borough of Bridgenorth), as well as his ale-house. I left the old couple fondling their lamb, and caressing it and their kine-one a Hereford red, with a fine calf, which they had been debating about selling to the butcher; but at last their affections got the better of their poverty, and the old man concluded, by saying, it would be a pity to kill the poor thing, and he would e'en keep it for the mother's sake. Although I stopped for a pin to fasten up the envious curtain behind the chaise, yet I asked for a draught of milk, warm from the favorite cow, which was given to me in a clean porringer, with a face of as true benevolence as I ever saw. On taking leave, I asked to contribute towards the rebuilding of the burnt house, telling them it was the custom in the country I came from. But the old man, with a face of great surprise, said, "I was kindly welcome to the milk; it was a thing of nothing;" and they both rejected the money (only two half-crowns), until I told them they must oblige me by accepting it, or I should be ashamed of having such a trifle returned. Whereupon the gude man said he would give the postillion with the return chaise a skinful of his best ale, when he came back; and the dame, ascribing her good fortune to the mercy shown to the calf, promised, at my request, to remember me, in her prayers, as the sick stranger to whom she had ministered; and I left them, with feelings of deep respect for their honest poverty and kind-heartedness. Mr. Whittemore is a great proprietor here. His great house, on the right, is under repair, and he occupies a cottage" in the village; about such a house as Mr. Wickham's. His poor tenant at Quat is the third instance I have met with of a person refusing money here. The first was the parish-clerk, at Battlefield; the next, Bourne, the head-waiter at the Lion; a thing hardly credible in England, where the rapacity of this class, in particular, is proverbial; for-asking Mr. Wickham's pardon for making free with his person, as well as his house-you meet with as well dressed persons as himself who will make you a low bow for sixpence; aye, and beg for it, to boot. I thought a thousand times of Mr. Wickham's speech. Plunder is the order of the day. Shopkeepers, tradesmen, but, above all, innkeepers, waiters, postillions, ostlers, and chambermaids, fleece you without mercy; all is venal. Pray remember the boots! Something for the waiter, sir!-and this at a coffee-house where you have only stepped in to take a glass of negus, after a

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play, and have paid a double price for it. You can't get a reply to the plainest question without paying for it, unless you go into a shop; and to speak to one whom you don't know, is received with an air as if you had clapped a pistol to his breast.

But I should do the greatest injustice were I not to say, that the higher ranks a few despicable and despised fashionables excepted are as unpretending and plain as our old-fashioned Virginian gentlemen, whom they greatly resemble. This class of men is now nearly extinct, to my great grief, and the shame and loss of our country. They are as distinct from the present race in their manners, dress, principles, and every thing but anatomical structure, as an eagle is from a pig, or a wild turkey from a turkey-buzzard. The English gentleman is not graceful, not affable, but plain, sincere, kind, without one particle of pretension in dress, manner, or any thing else.

At Kidderminster, I breakfasted (15 miles), and saw the carpet manufactory, and bought four hearth rugs. I also visited the old church, as was my custom, and copied an epitaph, not on the rich and great, but a poor sergeant, erected by his colonel; I mean the monument was, not the epitaph. We entered Worcestershire some miles before we reached Kidderminster. It is perhaps the finest county in the kingdom, take it for all and all. Among the seats between Kidderminster and Worcester, are Halleburg; the Bp. of W.'s, where the pigs (hogs, we should call them,) were in the beautiful grounds; Waverley House, Mrs. Orange, a rich widow lady, with an only daughter, unmarried-this is one of the prettiest and finest places I have seen; Sir John Fleming Leicester's, between Knutsford and Northwich (which I just remember to have omitted), is another very capital place; and I am sure I have not mentioned a thousand superior to any thing we have. But the air of comfort and fatness since we left Lancashire, is very refreshing. The houses are old and weather-stained, but clean to fastidiousness; some of framework, filled in with brick; the timbers black, and the brick-work overcast with lime, and white as this paper; casement-lights, leaden sashes, &c. Ombresley Court, Lady Downshire's, which is the ancient seat of the Sandys family, is a fine place. She is a Sandys, and Baroness S. in her own right. I thought of Walpole and Pulteney, and her progenitor who sunk into a peerage.

She was

At Worcester, in driving into the Hop Pole Inn yard, the postillion had nearly killed a poor girl, with a child in her arms. thrown down, but, God be praised! neither were hurt. I would not endure what I felt while the suspense lasted for any consideration. Town full. Quarter sessions. Cleanest and prettiest town (a city) that I have yet seen. Determined to remain, and see the cathedral; but next morning I determined otherwise.

Giving up, for the present, my pilgrimage to Cheltenham, I set out on the top of the coach, paying 12 shillings for my fare to London, and through the Vale of Evesham, and an enchanting country through Pershire, Bengeworth, Morton, Broadway (where is a tremendous hill, commanding the whole vale and the Malvern Hills), Morton, Woodstock, Oxford, a city of palaces.

And here, my dear Bet, I must again abruptly close this longwinded epistle, with assurances of my exalted regard.

I broke open this letter myself.

J. R. OF R.

CHAPTER XXI.

INCIDENTS IN ENGLAND.

In the month of June, says Mr. Harvey, I went over to London, accompanied by my father, who had been summoned to attend a committee of the House of Commons, to give evidence in a case of some importance. I had prepared my father for an introduction to my most eccentric friend, and yet, when I did introduce him, he could scarcely refrain from smiling. "Sir," said Mr. Randolph, “I am proud to make the acquaintance of the son of that man who received the thanks of Congress for his kindness to my poor countrymen. Your son, my young friend here, sir, tells me he has delivered my letter, and I hope you will soon receive the books from my bookseller in Washington. Keep them as a momento of my friendship, sir." My father thanked him warmly for his kindness, and we entered into a general conversation. Suddenly Randolph rose from his chair, and, in his most imposing manner, thus addressed him: "Mr. Hdays ago I saw the greatest curiosity in London; aye, and in England, too, sir-compared to which, Westminster Abbey, the Tower, Somerset House, the British Museum, nay Parliament itself, sink into utter insignificance! I have seen, sir, Elizabeth Fry, of Newgate, and I have witnessed there, sir, miraculous effects of true Christianity upon the most depraved of human beings-bad women, sir, who are worse, if possible, than the devil himself! and yet the wretched outcasts

two

have been tamed and subdued by the Christian eloquence of Mrs. Fry! I have seen them weep repentant tears whilst she addressed them. I have heard their groans of despair, sir! Nothing but religion can effect this miracle, sir; for what can be a greater miracle than the conversion of a degraded, sinful woman, taken from the very dregs of society! Oh! sir, it was a sight worthy the attention of angels! You must, also, see this wonder, sir; and, by the way, this is one of her visiting days-let us go at once; we shall just be in time. She has given me permission to bring any of my friends with me. I shall introduce you, sir, with great pleasure." We immediately ordered a coach, and drove to Mrs. Fry's house, but found, to our no small disappointment, that she was not in town that day.

It was my good fortune, afterwards, to become acquainted with Mrs. Fry, and to spend a day or two at her country-seat, near London, and I need scarcely add, that my admiration of her character was, if possible, increased by this introduction into her social circle. In the course of conversation, I said to Miss Fry, "Pray tell me in what way you became acquainted with my eccentric friend Randolph ?" "Why," replied she, "in rather an eccentric way. One day my mother was in town, getting ready to go to Newgate, when a stranger was announced. A tall, thin gentleman, with long hair, and very strangely dressed, entered the parlor, walked deliberately up to my mother, who rose to receive him, and held out his hand, saying, in the sweet tone of a lady's voice, 'I feel I have some right to introduce myself to Elizabeth Fry, as I am the friend of her friend, Jessy Kersey, of Philadelphia, (a celebrated preacher in the Society of Friends). I am John Randolph, of Roanoke, State of Virginia; the fellow countryman of Washington.' My mother, who had heard a great deal of him from different persons, gave him a cordial reception; and was so extremely pleased with his most original conversation, she not only took him with her to Newgate, but invited him to come and see us. We have since seen him several times, and have been highly delighted with him. Last week some strangers were to dine with us, and my mother invited him to be of the number. In writing the note of invitation, I apologized to him for naming so unfashionably early an hour as four o'clock, knowing that at the west end he never dined before eight. His reply was quite characteristic, and made us all laugh heartily. Here it is: Mr. Randolph regrets that a prior en