father did not always communicate their contents. His last
letter, however, had filled him and our whole little family with joy; it
was dated from Paris, and the writer was evidently in high spirits. After
describing in eloquent terms the beauties and gaieties of the French
capital, he informed us how he had plenty of money, having copied a
celebrated picture of one of the Italian masters for a Hungarian
nobleman, for which he had received a large sum. "He wishes me to go
with him to Italy," added he, "but I am fond of independence; and, if
ever I visit old Rome, I will have no patrons near me to distract my
attention." But six months had now elapsed from the date of this letter,
and we had heard no farther intelligence of my brother. My father's
complaint increased; the gout, his principal enemy, occasionally mounted
high up in his system, and we had considerable difficulty in keeping it
from the stomach, where it generally proves fatal. I now devoted almost
the whole of my time to my father, on whom his faithful partner also
lavished every attention and care. I read the Bible to him, which was
his chief delight; and also occasionally such other books as I thought
might prove entertaining to him. His spirits were generally rather
depressed. The absence of my brother appeared to prey upon his mind. "I
wish he were here," he would frequently exclaim; "I can't imagine what
can have become of him; I trust, however, he will arrive in time." He
still sometimes rallied, and I took advantage of those moments of
comparative ease, to question him upon the events of his early life. My
attentions to him had not passed unnoticed, and he was kind, fatherly,
and unreserved. I had never known my father so entertaining as at these
moments, when his life was but too evidently drawing to a close. I had
no idea that he knew and had seen so much; my respect for him increased,
and I looked upon him almost with admiration. His anecdotes were in
general highly curious; some of them related to people in the highest
stations, and to men whose names were closely connected with some of the
brightest glories of our native land. He had frequently conversed--almost
on terms of familiarity--with good old George. He had known the
conqueror of Tippoo Saib; and was the friend of Townshend, who, when
Wolfe fell, led the British grenadiers against the shrinking regiments of
Montcalm. "Pity," he added, "that when old--old as I am now--he sho