sible of, the advantages of his ministry. The clergy around him, were many of them awed by his example. His children were thriving under his own tuition and management: and his eldest boy is likely to feel his loss severely, being by his years, in some respect, qualified to understand the value of such a parent; by his literary proficiency, too clever for a school-boy, and too young at the same time for the university. The removal of a man in the prime of life, of such a character, and with such connexions, appears to make a void in society that can never be filled. God seemed to have made him just what he was, that he might be a blessing to others; and when the influence of his character and abilities began to be felt, removed him. These are mysteries, my dear, that we cannot contemplate without astonishment: but they will be explained hereafter; and they must, in the mean time, be revered in silence. It is well for his mother that she has spent her life in the practice of an habitual acquiescence in the dispensations of Providence; else, I know that this stroke would have been heavier, after all that she has suffered, than she could have borne. She derives, as she well may, great consolation from the thought that he lived the life, and died the death, of a Christian. The consequence is, if possible, more unavoidable than the most mathematical conclusion, that, therefore, he is happy. So farewell, my friend Unwin! the first man for whom I conceived a friendship after my removal from St. Alban's; and for whom I cannot but still continue to feel a friendship, though I shall see thee with these eyes no more!

CHAPTER XIV.

LETTERS OF MISS SEWARD.

LETTER I.

To miss Emma

Lichfield, June 2, 1764.

O! my kind friend, my dear sister is dangerously ill! Thursday next was fixed for her marriage. About three o'clock yesterday morning, I was awakened by her taking my hand, and telling me that she was very ill. Her dear hands felt of a parching heat, and so did her forehead and temples.

I called assistance instantly. We are all very much alarmed. Medicine has hitherto unsuccessfully contended with the disease, which I am afraid gains ground instead of abating. Her spirits have been too much hurried for a constitution so delicate.

We are a sad family; distracted with fears, that we dare not communicate to each other. I will not, while any hope remains, send away this letter; that, if it please Heaven to restore the dear sufferer, you may be spared those grievous apprehensions which your sympathy will excite, should you know our situation before. you are informed that its terrors are removed.

Thursday morning.-Congratulate me, dearest Emma!

* Her only sister, miss Sarah Seward, who died at the age of nineteen, on the eve of her intended marriage with Mr. Porter, a merchant at Leghorn, brother of Mrs. Lucy Porter of Lichfield, and son-in-law of Dr. Johnson.

The intended bridal day has arisen auspiciously, averting from my Sally's bosom the arrows of death, whose aim has been deprecated with our prayers and tears. There is a remission in the fever ;-a balmy moisture upon her temples, bosom, and hands. She breathes freely; is able to sit up in an arm chair; to smile with her wonted serenity; and cheerfully to tell us that she shall soon be well.

Thursday night.-Oh! my friend, our hopes are vanished! While I was changing my gown, and preparing to carry neatness and a cheerful countenance to my sister's arm chair, she relapsed;-the fever returned with redoubled violence!

In the distraction with which the servants fled different ways to recall the medical people, nobody came near my apartment to reveal the sad tidings, and I entered the sick room with all the alacrity of hope. What did I behold there!-Alas! my precious sister sunk back in her bed, just recovering from a fainting-fit!-sweet Honora* supporting with her arm the dear sufferer's head, her silent tears falling, in large drops, upon her Sally's pillow; my father and mother standing by the bed-side, the deepest wo in their countenance; Mr. Porter sitting in the window, leaning upon his hand, which covered his forehead.

The dear creature opened her languid eyes, and, looking at me earnestly, said: "My Nancy, you are dressed!—are you going out?—Do not leave me long."

"Alas, no! I had no thought of going out. I left you, my love, to put on clean clothes, that I might look comfortable to you, flattering myself that you were

Miss Honora Sneyd, daughter of Edward Sneyd, esq. She was adopted by Mr. and Mrs Seward, and educated in their family. She married Richard Lovell Edgeworth, esq.

greatly better: nobody came to tell me that you were not so well again." She sighed, and waved her dear hand emphatically, as if she had said: "The days of our happiness here are passed away!"

Saturday morning.-Ah! she has grown worse and worse, though by slow degrees. Dr. D. says, when the fever returned, it was with a fatal change in its nature, from inflammatory to putrid, and that he has very little hope of saving her.

How pitiable would Mr. Porter's situation be, if he had strong sensibilities!-so near calling such a blessing his, and to have it thus torn from him! but his sensations seem more like vexation than grief.

My father's sanguine and cheerful disposition will not suffer him to think that his darling is so ill as she surely is. My mother, my poor mother!-She has heard that a clergyman in Worcestershire, of the name of Bayley, has frequently administeredJames's Powders with success, in very dangerous cases. She has just sent a chaise and four full speed, to conjure him to come hither in it, on an errand of life or death. We have all eagerly caught at this possibility; and we are flattering ourselves with hopes, which, I fear, are but as the straws at which drowning wretches catch.

Sunday. Mr. Bayley is come; he arrived at ten this morning. The instant he came into the room, my mother rushed to him, and clasped her arms wildly around him, exclaiming, in the piercing accent of anguish : "Save my child!” He burst into tears. They went instantly into the sick chamber: but O! he gives us not more hope than Dr. D. If the fever had but continued inflammatory !—but here all evacuation is pernicious> He joins the doctor in advising musk medicines instead of the powders. Adieu!

Wednesday morning.-I have hardly strength to tell you-it is pronounced, she cannot survive this night!-Pray for us that we may be supported under this severe chastisement of Almighty Power!

my

LETTER II.

To miss Emma

Anna Seward.

Gotham, Nottinghamshire, June 23, 1764.

I have sat almost an hour at the writing-table, hands crossed upon this paper, unable to take up the pen; that pen which I used to seize with glad alacrity, when it was to convey my thoughts to you! Now, spiritless, afflicted, weary, my mind presents only scenes of mournful recollection; or, hovering over the silent and untimely grave of my sister, perceives nothing but a drear vacuity.

Your last letter came to me when my heart laboured under one of the keenest paroxysms of its late anguish. The funeral bell was tolling; and the dear remains were everlastingly passing away from our habitation. Six of her young companions, clad in white raiment, the emblem of her purity, and drowned in tears, bore, with trembling hands, the pall that covered the dim form, which, but a little fortnight before, had walked amidst them with the light step of youth and gaiety; upon the very lawn over which they were then slowly walking, in grieved and awful silence, interrupted only by the solemn death-bell.

Thus vanish our hopes!-thus cold is the bridal bed of my dear sister! No sun-beam shall pierce its dark "till the last morn appear."

recess,

A few days after this sad scene was closed, we came hither, to the village retirement of my excellent uncle