6

less debased by animal and sensual life, are more congenial with its nature: not that the passions are to be considered as the Pagans of the soul,' and to be exterminated. The heart is the seat of religion. Where it is enthroned, the appetites shrink from its presence to their proper distance; but the affections wait around it in duteous homage and obedience.'

"How much,' exclaimed Julia, am I indebted to my best friend for the salutary instructions he has so kindly afforded to me. My heart is relieved, and I am happy. I have long felt religion to be all that he has described. I am glad that such is its real character; and that to be a Christian, it is only necessary to know, to adore, to love, and to obey the Saviour-to follow him, though with trembling and faltering steps to renounce self, as either originating or maturing the principles of piety-to rely solely on infinite merit for our acceptance with God-and to be renewed by infinite grace, as our best, our only qualification, to dwell in his presence for ever.

"am deeply conscious of frailties, imperfections, and sins. I have suffered much from the heart's idolatry-suffered more than I can ever disclose. It has been finely said of one, that her noble heart had room but for two illustrious guests-the love of God and the love of her country;' and that, when these departed, the inmate, finding the mansion no longer tenantable, her soul fled with its glorious visitors to heaven.' Alas! the treacherous guest, welcomed by my weak and confiding heart, is gone; but not to heaven. I dare not-must not, follow

him even in thought. I have sometimes murmured in silence at my cruel lot; this has stained my conscience with guilt, and disturbed my peace. Perfect acquiescence in the will of God, in the hour of desolation, is a high-I sometimes fear-an impossible attainment. Yet, why should I repine? I ought to learn -I must learn -like the bird of paradise, not to set my foot on earth.'

"This was the only occasion on which this heart-broken, affectionate creature, ever made the slightest allusion to her unfortunate attachment. It was too much for her exhausted feelings; and we soon left her to the tranquillity of night, and the soothing influence of

"Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep."

To you, my dear Emily, I fear the detail of these long dialogues, à la Calebs,' will be sadly tedious. I cannot convey to you the looks, the tones, and the thousand nameless graces and endearments with which they were accompanied and received. Their monotony was broken by occasional pauses; by the tender offices of affection, which sickness so much requires; and by the interchange of sentiments, which relaxed the tension of thought when in the least degree it seemed to threaten weariness.

"For my own part, the previous state of my mind disposed me to receive these instructions with an infinitely greater zest than I ever felt in pursuing the brightest novelty that ever captivated my imagination, when pleasure was my business, and fashion my deity. If you regard 5 *

VOL. II.

them with distaste, or indifference, lay them aside for the present. Recur to them in the hour of solemn feeling, or of calm reflection, when the world recedes, and you sigh and say, 'all is vanity.' In my view, they have divested Christianity of those qualities, or rather appendages, which its mistaken votaries have laboured to identify with it; but which, I now perceive, are foreign to its nature. I once imagined, that I never could be brought to receive certain doctrines of the gospel; but my objections were founded on misapprehension. The religion of a narrow, coarse, and uninstructed mind-and that of a generous, refined, and enlightened one-though derived from the same source, produce totally different impressions on those who have no other medium of ascertaining what religion is. We are too prone to judge of piety by its accidental associations. But it appears to me, that I now behold it in its own light, without the obscurities of ignorance, or the discolorations of prejudice. Adieu, till I have something more to communicate.

"Your's, as ever,

"LOUISA DELA VAL."

CHAPTER III.

"Oh! thou bright Heaven, if thou art calling now
Thy brighter angels to thy bosom-rest;

For lo! the brightest of thy host is gone-
Departed-and the earth is dark below."-Cornwall.

As the Autumn was far advanced, and Sir George Delaval had with great difficulty con

trived to spend nearly six months in the seclusion of the Isle of Wight, he determined on returning to town, and on paying a visit to his seat in Buckinghamshire, where the maiden sister of the late Lady Delaval resided. Louisa, having obtained her father's permission to remain with the Wilmingtons, removed from the Hermitage, and became the constant companion of Julia, whose health had so visibly improved during the last fortnight, that though no sanguine hopes could be entertained of her final recovery, it was deemed expedient, by her friends, that she should return to Beaulieu. The first fine day was selected for the purpose, and thither the whole family, with their interesting visitor, arrived, after a delightful sail of about three hours. But former scenes awakened in the bosom of the invalid, painful recollections. Every spot was endeared and embittered by associations which could not be broken. Smiles and tears, alternately, and often at the same moment, illumined and bedewed her face. She would muse for hours in pensive sadness, and indulge in all the dangerous luxury of feelings, excited by objects which, though inanimate, and to others indifferent, were to her the living, conscious images of joys which had passed away, and which could never return. At all times, the scenery of nature receives its colouring from the mind; and the one is bright or sombre, as the other is elated or depressed. Alas! the heart is the creator or destroyer of its own paradise; and scenes touched, nay, almost hallowed, by the magic of the passions, never lose their power over us. The witnesses of depart

ed pleasures appear to retain the identity and freshness of their existence only to reproach the mutability of our short-lived happiness. They remain just as the eye delighted to rest upon them in the moments of silent rapture; but those moments-where are they? Their shadows, cold and distant, seem to glide before the imagination, and to mock the heart that sighs in vain for their return.

Julia felt all this. The feeling was profound and secret. She could not, on this subject, reveal the sorrow which was thus newly awakened in her bosom. When Louisa descanted with poetical enthusiasm on the beauty and sublimity of the objects around them, her tongue was si- · lent; but the eloquent expression of her countenance seemed to say

"I hear a voice you cannot hear,
I see a hand you cannot see."

Yet did she struggle to overcome emotions, it was useless, and even injurious to indulge. The effort was successful, and her mind soon recovered its tranquillity; but her disease gained unwonted power from the conflict, and from the first week after her arrival she grew rapidly

worse.

While

The attentions of Louisa, equally prompted by affection and piety, were unremitted. she endeavoured to soothe the anguish of nature, she desired to witness the power of religion, and thus to fortify her heart against the temptations of life, and the terrors of death. The event, so long dreaded, at length approached.