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GEORGE HARDINGE, ESQ. TO MRS. INCHBALD.

"Your most absurd letter, just received, shall never appear in judgment against you: not because it is ill-natured and unjust,-not because it convinces me that your temper is impracticable, (because these are points that are becoming and rather interesting in a petticoat,) but from the delicacy which I feel for you, and which you little deserve in other words, because it is a childish and weak letter. It has the head of bigotry, and the soul of Holcroft. Both of the Hunts would proudly disclaim it: Brother Simpson, at Lord Petre's, would say, Thanks to the Holy Virgin

that I am not an original, as Betty is.' Martin would refuse your little parties with him upon a summer's day, to the King of Bohemia's Head, or the Paddington Bowling-green, if he could see a page of this letter to me. Sundays!-and as to G

Good bye to the Bob

* *, the little atheist! he'd creep out of the key-hole, or even take his chance out of the window, if he could imagine you so poor and so flimsy a thing. Sir Charles would lift up his shoulders, and put his hands into his breeches-pockets, with more philosophy than respect or attachment, if I sent a copy to him of your philippics against me.

"As to your abuse, you have taught me to value it. Oh that I may for ever be called stupid by the person who wrote a Satire upon the Times, by setting a ship on fire, and burning every

soul in the book except a Lord of the Bedchamber-by whom she meant the K--."

We have but little to say as to this last letter from Mr. Hardinge, and are thankful to him for refusing to our curiosity a sight of that to which it is an answer. The pleasant mention he makes of her relatives and friends, and the effect which he imagines such a letter would have upon them, has whim in the notion, and is not without characteristic touches of the ludicrous. Our pleasant friend, the philosopher, will only smile at the mad-dog howl of Atheism; but we will tell him a story to help his digestion, and the occurrence happened to ourselves:

We were one day speaking of Porson to a precisian of the old bench, when he interrupted us by saying, that "he would not sit down with such a man." " And To which we simply replied,

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pray, why?" "Why!" he exclaimed; why he

is a Deist, or Atheist, or something of that sort, is he not?" To this absurdity we coolly answered, "Something of that sort! Pray, what sort?-for you have already classed within it one who believes a God, and one who does not; as you would know, if you attached any meaning to the words you use." Our friend left us without reply, with

a look that showed him to have settled the sort of persons with whom he was to number our unfortunate, because not illiberal, selves.

The Satire on the Times," which Mr. Hardinge refers to, is to us unintelligible: it must allude to some of those political writings which were of a temporary nature, and have happily perished in the furious season that gave birth to them. We find that she used to receive anonymous letters occasionally, of caution, as to such publications; and many personal friends, besides Taylor, ventured to admonish the independent lady. But when Holcroft was committed to prison on a charge of high treason, she neither felt alarm about herself, nor would desert her friend; but went immediately with Robinson the publisher in a coach to Newgate to visit him: nor should it be forgotten that, a very short time. before this happened, she wrote a letter to acquaint him, that, in consequence of the novel which he had just published, she broke off all acquaintance with him. Her temper, Mr. Hardinge, may be, as you say, impracticable; but surely her soul is generous. How many dastard spirits would have applauded their own prescience for anticipating Holcroft's commitment-rejoiced that they had broken with him so exactly in time -and left him in his gaol, unsoothed by the countenance which he had all but worshipped!

The Martin mentioned, is General Martin. The Bob Sundays are those she passes either with Mr. Babb or Robinson the bookseller; most probably the latter.

CHAPTER XV.

Begins a new comedy-Writes on Synonymy-Sheridan pays for 'The Wedding Day' before its performance!-Her sister Debby's decline and death-Comforts administered by Mrs. Inchbald -Pays the funeral expenses-Visits Suffolk-Buys into the Long Annuities Another physician, Dr. Gisborne-His letters to Mrs. Inchbald, Sir Thomas (then Mr.) Lawrence-Dr. Gisborne-The farewell and return of love-The mighty Magician of Udolpho-In 1795 Mrs. Inchbald dislocates her shoulder-yet begins to write upon the Virtues and her own Life; identical subjects-Her brother Simpson falls in a duel—Mrs. Whitfield's death, and Mrs. Dobson's-Kemble-The Abercorns at Stanmore-Carlton House-Miss Wallis and the Loughboroughs-Lady Lanesborough denied-Savings of economy.

THE most remarkable events which she records, we shall pass through as rapidly as we can, allowing ourselves to pause only where she herself gives interest to the facts.

On the 5th of May she began a new comedy, of which we shall know more in the sequel; and in May wrote a critique on Synonymy, probably occasioned by Mrs. Piozzi's volumes on the subject. Mrs. Siddons made her a present of her bust by Mrs. Damer. She saw a good deal of the Kemble family this year, including the Twisses;

and at length Kemble came to explain to her why she had never got her money for the farce she had sold to them. The fact, it seems, was, that Sheridan had lost it: so at length she is requested to write another copy, upon the receipt of which Mr. Sheridan transmitted a note which was paid in July; and, a wonder indeed for such management, the author was actually paid before the piece was put into rehearsal!

Her sister Dolly we should conceive to have quitted Miss Pearce, with the view of filling a situation more amusing, to be sure,-that of barmaid at the Staple-Inn Coffee-house; kept, it should seem, by their friend Bob Whitfield: and there Mrs. Inchbald visited her frequently. The other sister, whose prettier face does not seem to have contributed to her advancement in life, poor Debby, was now approaching the end of her course, and in the greatest pecuniary distress. This burst through all the reserves of Mrs. Inchbald, and she hurried to support her in the dreadful crisis, which she took every pains to render less bitter. She supplied the required comforts of existence, gave her the attendance of a priest, and at her death took upon herself the whole funeral expenses. The miserable fate of this sister, deeply regretted, pressed long and heavily upon the mind of Mrs. Inchbald. She could not help reproaching herself with cruelty for that severity which had driven her from the door when

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