rannized over me. The tale is well worked up. Love leads his victim, by degrees, from one crime to another; till, at laft, on the day fixed for Nelly's marriage with Adelfon, Salvini murders her, and endeavours to murder himself, The attendants preserve him, a further victim to justice. He is committed to Newgate-condemned to death. Adelfon bribes a jailor to afford Salvini that opportunity to efcape, which he twice refufes. He fatisfies human justice by fuffering at Tyburn. Adelfon and Mrs. Rivers increase his crime, by dying of grief in confequence of it.

Oh Charles-Charles-as yet thy H. is no Salvini. Nor will I murder any but myself.As yet the devil has not tempted me to plunge

my

* When firft I read this letter I had never heard of D'Arnaud. I now enquired for fuch a writer. Still I could not credit Mr. H. Who could believe that poor H.'s story should be related fo many years before it happened, under the name of Salvini? But fo it is. (Epreuves du fentiment, par M. D'Arnaud. Maeftricht, 1774Tome 3. 101.) The circumstance is fo remarkable,that a note an hour long might be written upon it. If H,'s story be more complete than Salvini's, it does but show that Nature is a better writer than D'Arnaud. He yields, yet yields only to her pen; and even Nature appears to have borrowed from D'Arnaud."What a compliment!" the reader fays—“What a "writer, to deserve fuch a compliment !" adds the Editor.

Before poor H. concludes this letter, there is an allufion to the most fingular scene which Rousseau has so wonderfully painted. La nouvelle Heloife, Lettre 17.

A a 2

my Eloife along with me into the unfathomable depths of deftruction.Take the lines I mentioned. They are too good for the bad caufe they were written to defend.-My watch I have fealed up for you: wear it for my fake. Crop has been a faithful fervant to me, accept of him; and when he is too old to carry you, let him have the run of your park. He once (how happy was I that day!)-he once bore the precious burden of her for whom I die. folemnly farewel. It While I do live,

Already have I bid you fhall not be repeated. Your own

Averfe from life, nor well refolv'd to die,
Us'd but to murmur, I retain my breath-
Yet pant, enlarg'd from this dull world, to try
The hofpitable, though cold, arms of death.

What future joys should bid me wish to live?
What flattering dreams of better days remain?
What profpect can obfcure existence give,
A recompence for penury and pain?

Is there an hope that o'er this unton'd frame
Awaken'd health her wonted glow shall spread?
Is there a path to pleafure, wealth, or fame,
Which fickness, languor, and remorse can tread ?

Then wherefore fhould I doubt? what fhould I fear?
Why for a moment longer bear my grief?
Behold my great deliverer is near!
Immediate as I wish, his prompt relicf.

H.

O infance

O inftance ftrange of free, but blinded will,
Difcufs'd fo much, fo little understood,

To bear the certainty of prefent ill,

Before the uncertain chance of ill or good!

But what that chance? Why, be it what it
Still 'tis a chance: and here my woes are fure.
Yet think these woes are forrows of a day,
While those to all eternity endure.-

Think on the horrors of eternal pain !
Imagination startles at the name;

Nor can impress upon the labouring brain
Duration endless still, and still the fame.----

may;

Well haft thou faid-nor can it be imprefs'd.
Hath blind credulity that abject slave,
Who thinks his nothingness, for ever bless'd,.
Shall hold eternal triumph o'er the grave?

When oceans ceafe to roll, rocks melt away,.
Atlas and Ætna fink into the plain,

The glorious fun, the elements decay,

Shall man, creation's flimfieft work, remain ?

What fhall remain of man?-this outward frame ?.

Soon fhall it moulder to its native duft---

Or haply that unbodied fùbtle flame
Which occupies and animates the bust ?✩

Let but a finger ache, the kindred foul
Its intimate alliance fhall perceive :
Let ultimate destruction grafp the whole,
The foul immortal and unchang'd shall live,

Stop but one conduit, and the tone is loft ;-
But burst each pipe, and tear up every key,
Then shall the decompofed organ's ghost
Swell the loud peal of endless harmony.-

So fhall that quality, whofe powers
arife
From various parts by nicest art arrang'd,
With every shock they suffer fympathize;
But after their deftruction live unchang'd.---

So much for argument-the legends vain
Of priestly craft reach not th'ingenuous mind-
Let knaves invent, and folly will maintain,`
The wildeft fyftem that deludes mankind.

Did there exift the very hell they paint;
Were there the very heaven they defire;
"Twere hard to choose, a devil or a faint,
Eternal fing-fong or eternal fire.

Ye idle hopes of future joys, farewel!
Farewel ye groundlefs fears of future woe!
Lo, the fole argument on which to dwell;
Shall I, or shall I not, this life forego!

I know the ftorm that waits my deftin'd head,
The trifling joys I yet may hope to reap,
The momentary pang I have to dread,
The state of undisturb'd, undreaming sleep-

Then all is known-and all is known too well,
Or to distract, or to delay my choice:

No hopes folicit, and no fears rebel

Against mine ultimate, determin'd voice.

Had

Had I fufpicions that a future state
Might yet exift, as haply I have none-
'Twere worth the cost, to venture on my fate,
Impell'd by curiofity alone.

Sated with life, and amply gratify'd
In every varied pleasure life can give,
One fole enjoyment yet remains untry'd,
One only novelty-to cease to live.

Not yet reduc'd a scornful alms to crave,
Not yet of those with whom I liv'd the sport;
No great man's pander, parafite, or slave-
O Death, I feek thy hospitable port.

Thou, like the virgin in her bridal sheet,
Seemeft prepar'd, confenting, kind, to lie;
The happy bridegroom I, with hafty feet,
Fly to thine arms in rapt'rous extasy.

LETTER

To Mr. B

LVIE.

7 April, 1779.

My dear F.

When this reaches you Ifhall be no more, but do not let my unhappy fate diftress you too much. I ftrove against it as long as poffible, but it now overpowers me. You know where my affections were placed; my having by fome

T

means