A few weeks after Horace had quitted England, Miss Cowley’s tranquillity was again interrupted. She had sent her father, with some specimens of her own talents in drawing, her picture at full length; this was the work of the first artist in London, and was acknowledged to be not only a capital picture, but also a striking resemblance of her by those friends who had seen it. Mr. Cowley, on receiving it, appears to have given indulgence to all the feelings of nature, in beholding the portrait of a child so dear to him, an object of delight and admiration to his friends. He praises the design, the attitude; in a word, the skill of the painter in the highest terms. “But,” adds he, “if such be thy external endowments, he has had a subject for his labours worthy of them.” He continues in this stile of gaiety to inform her, that, notwithstanding “the hazel eyes,” which are said to be his gift, he thinks she so much resembles her mother, that he had placed her picture opposite to her mother’s portrait; and that he passes from one to the other, with sensations at once pleasurable and painful. “Your arrival, in the mean time,” continues he, “has been celebrated by a grand dinner, to which my friends resorted in crowds. Curiosity and admiration at length gave place to a contest between the ‘dove-like blue eyes,’ and the ‘saucy hazel ones.’ Your champions were Captain Vernon and your old friend Oliver Flint, whom you will remember as your favourite, although you threw your wax doll at his head, because he said it was prettier than Marian. As to your other valorous knight, I have only to recommend to you, when you next see him with his cargo of sweetmeats, to caution him to be more moderate in his zeal for your glory; for had he not been arrack-proof as completely as he is salt-water proof, he had been a dead man; for by maintaining your cause he has had a fever, which frightened his poor wife into a sick bed.” This letter finishes by mentioning the arrival of two strangers in Jamaica; namely, a gentleman of the name of Flamall, with his nephew, Mr. Philip Flint, the posthumous brother of Mr. Oliver Flint, the gentleman already mentioned in his letter. “My worthy old friend,” continues Mr. Cowley, “has drooped ever since the loss of his sons. I do not wonder that this has been the case. They had been his support under the severe trials of losing a good wife, and several other children. They had attained to an age in which he might, and had reasonably hoped to find in them a support and comfort to his grave. In one week an epidemic fever rendered him _childless_. Poor Oliver was for a time overwhelmed by this dreadful blow; but the constitution of his mind and body have saved him. He turned his thoughts to remedy his grief, not to repinings for an affliction sent him, as he said, ‘for his good;’ and he has found one in this young brother, whom he never knew till lately. This child was the fruit of his father’s