DEAR FRANK, Hampton Roads, July 31st, 1801. I LEFT home more than a fortnight ago, but have by contrary winds and other accidents been prevented from proceeding further on my voyage than this place until to day. I did not write to you before my departure, although you were so kind as to express in your letter a regret at leaving me; but I was not then in a humour for writing letters. Much nonsense has been said, and much more has been sung, upon the pangs of parting with friends. I am perhaps of a cold unfeeling frame; but for my part I never felt those piercing agonies upon the occasion, that others talk of. I always find at those times my senses wrapped up and obtunded by a kind of mental mist, that hinders me from contemplating the future, and hardly allows me to discern the present. Even for some time after the final adieu, it seems to me that I am hardly gone; and every thing is revolved in my mind as if the next day was to bring the same routine of actions, and the society of the same persons as the last. It is not until long after I have taken my departure, that I find a conviction of reality coming upon me with all its sad ness. I left Annapolis in the torpid state that I have described, and jogged on " thinking about nothing," towards Alexandria. I stopped however one day on the road to see Ridgely, and on the evening of the second day pursued my journey. When I arrived within a quarter of a mile of the Alexandria ferry, a violent shower came on, and my brother Jem, who had hitherto accompanied me, took leave of me and returned to regain a shelter from the storm. Then for the first time my eyes were opened, and I saw myself a lonely unfriended wanderer going into exile. My thoughts then recurred to the scenes I had left with redoubled energy and tenfold pain. The termination of my absence was at so distant a period, that I dared not look forward steadily to contemplate it, and to avoid thinking of the intermediate interval, and comparing it with the past, was not in my power. You were pleased to compliment me, by remembering me in the hour of your departure for no very distant spot, and I can assure you that in the moments when I felt all the horror of the long absence that lay before me, I did sometimes think of you. But luckily for us poor playthings of fortune, no sorrow is so steadfast as not to admit of some intervals of joy. The day before yesterday I went on shore with the captain, and we were invited to dine by an old farmer near Hampton. The house was full of ruddy country lasses, and this lonely wanderer, this melancholy moralizer, mingled in the dance and stumped away to the noise of a Virginian fidler, who was sawing most desperately on the catgut. The querulous complaints of mistaken sensibility, and the rigid remonstrances of affected stoicism, were silenced by the voice of rustic merriment, and every thought of the past, and every care for the future, vanished from his mind. The Lauras, the Chloes, and the Delias, of Annapolis vanished from his recollection, and gave place to the blowzy beauties of Fanny and Sally. The landlord was a jovial old soul, who detested nothing so much as drinking cold water; and for two days our philosopher was employed in emptying the often replenished "Circean cup," or in making one of The rural set that simply sought renown, J. SHAW. DEAR FATHER, Glasgow, September 17th, 1801. I ARRIVED at port Glasgow on the 15th, after a long and tedious passage of forty-six days. We had a good deal of bad weather, and when we were five day's out, a violent squall carried away our main boom, and alarmed us very much lest the mast should have gone with it. The weather off the coast of Ireland was cold and stormy, and the winds contrary; but we have now a fine serene sky, and the people are getting in their harvest which is uncommonly plentiful. I saw great numbers of women reaping in the fields; but was surprised to see very few men employed in this business. This decrease is said to be owing to the war, which has carried away so many of them to recruit the army. The country for about ten miles to the westward of this place is a beautiful fertile plain, and is not so bare of wood as I expected to find Scotland. I remain your affectionate son, JOHN SHAW. DEAR SISTer, Glasgow, September 18th, 1801. I HAVE got into such a habit of idleness at sea, that it seems an almost insuperable task for me to fill up a sheet of paper. As for putting any thing into it that is worth reading, it is a thing that I have long despaired of; for it seems to me that my letters are the very dullest things in the world. To tell my correspondents that I am well, and that I am sorry to be deprived of their company, is the utmost extent of my abilities; and when I have done this, my whole stock of ideas is exhausted. I then sit biting my pen and seeking for something else to say, until I almost fall asleep, and the surprise of a nod or two awakens me again. What then can you expect from such a letter writer? I cannot be grave without being stupid, and to be lively is not in my nature. You may say that I may give you a description of what I have seen; but I know very well that there is little pleasure in reading a dry catalogue of towns, and houses, and churches, and rivers, and a hundred other et ceteras that might be crowded into a letter, with as little pleasure to the reader as profit to the writer. All that I know is that I am in Scotland, and when I shall get away again I do not know: the sooner the better. I find, that instead of writing a letter to you, I have only been writing an apology for not writing; but as I have no news to communicate, " such as I have, I give unto thee." DEAR FRANK, JOHN SHAW. Glasgow, September 19th, 1801. A FEW days ago I arrived in Scotland, and I seize this opportunity of letting you know it, if it so be that you care to know that I have not yet afforded a meal "to sharks and other hungry fishes." Behold me then upon banks of Clyde, ready to depart for Edinburgh, and snuffing already the breezes that waft from thence the sent of medical knowledge. No doubt you will imagine that I am hailing this alma mater, the end of my peregrination; that day sees nothing but my researches in the annals of medicine, and that by night the ghost of Hippocrates hovers o'er my slumbers. May-be-so; but I am afraid that the old gentleman would be scared away by the apparatus which he would find upon my table. I verily suspect that the first thing he would lay his hand on, would be a medical treatise entitled De Arte Amandi, written by one Dr. Ovid, an eminent physician in the days of old, although I cannot learn from what college he got his degrees. I have been employing my time upon the passage in reading some of the Latin poets. Virgil I have |