see it continue unabated, notwithstanding the different sphere of life in which you moved, to the period of it;—­and may we not hope that there is an union of souls beyond the grave?  The composure and fortitude displayed in thy letter, is the greatest consolation we could receive with the tidings it conveyed of thy health.  Since thou dost not allow us to hope for its restoration, we will hope better things than is in the power of this world to bestow.—­My mother appears to decline, and looks to the end of her race as near.  All the other branches of this family, I believe, are well in health.  My brother continues the school, which, I believe, was never in higher estimation than at present.  My husband regrets very much that he never shared with us the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with thee.  We all unite in cordial, unaffected love to thee.  I thought I would say how we were, believing thou would be pleased to hear of our welfare, though how long that may be continued, seems doubtful.—­The general fermentation throughout this nation, forebodes some sudden and dreadful eruption, and, however obscure or retired our situations may be, there is little prospect of escaping the calamity.  This may cause us to admire, nay, adore the mercy, as well as wisdom of Him, who gives and takes life, in removing those so dear to us from the evil to come.  My mother desires thou may accept as much love as she is capable of sending thee; her heart is full of it towards thee; and she bids me say, she hopes thou hast lived such a life, that thy end will be crowned with peace!  So be it, with my whole heart!  Thy affectionate and obliged friend.

Our best wishes, and dear love to thy wife.

Abraham Shackleton has the melancholy satisfaction of perusing dear Edmund Burke’s account of his poor state of health.  He hopes (trusts) that a quiet resting place is prepared for him.  The memory of E. Burke’s philanthropic virtues will out-live the period when his shining political talents will cease to act.  New fashions of political sentiment will exist; but philanthropy,—­immortale manet!

TO GEORGE CRABBE

She writes to remind him

Ballitore, 7th of Eleventh-month, 1816.

I believe it will surprise George Crabbe to receive a letter from an entire stranger, whom most probably he does not remember to have ever seen or heard of, but who cannot forget having met him at the house of Edmund Burke, Charles Street, James’s Square, in the year 1784.  I was brought thither by my father, Richard Shackleton, the friend from their childhood of Edmund Burke.  My dear father told thee that Goldsmith’s would now be the deserted village; perhaps thou dost not remember this compliment, but I remember the ingenuous modesty which disclaimed it.  He admired ‘The Village’, ‘The Library,’ and ’The Newspaper’ exceedingly, and the delight with which he read them