spring of youth and cheerfulness, more than thou hast yet tasted.

And so thou hast fixed thy Brahmin's portrait over thy writing-desk, and will consult it in all difficulties. Grateful and good girl! Yorick smiles contentedly over all thou dost; his picture does not do justice to his own complacency.

Thy sweet little plan and distribution of thy time how worthy of thee! Indeed, Eliza, thou leavest me nothing to direct thee in, — thou leavest me nothing to require, nothing to ask, but a continuation of that conduct which won my esteem and has made me thy friend forever.

May the roses come quick back to thy cheeks and the rubies to thy lips! But trust my declaration, Eliza, that thy husband (if he is the good, feeling man that I wish him) will press thee to him with more honest warmth and affection, and kiss thy pale, poor, dejected face with more transport than he would be able to do in the best bloom of all thy beauty; and so he ought, or I pity him. He must have strange feelings if he knows not the value of such a creature as thou art.

I am

I am glad Miss Light goes with you. She may relieve you from many anxious moments. glad your shipmates are friendly beings. You could least dispense with what is contrary to your

own nature, which is soft and gentle, Eliza. It would civilize savages; though pity were it thou shouldst be tainted with the office! How canst thou make apologies for thy last letter? 't is most delicious to me, for the very reason you excuse it. Write to me, my child, only such. Let them speak the easy carelessness of a heart that opens itself, anyhow and everyhow, to a man you ought to esteem and trust. Such, Eliza, I write to thee; and so I should ever live with thee, most artlessly, most affectionately, if Providence permitted thy residence in the same section of the globe, for I am all that honor and affection can make me,

THY BRAHMIN.

The Same to the Same.

MY DEAR ELIZA, I have been within the verge of the gates of death. I was ill the last time I wrote to you, and apprehensive of what would be the consequence. My fears were but too well founded; for, in ten minutes after I dispatched my letter, this poor, fine-spun frame of Yorick's gave way, and I broke a vessel in my breast and could not stop the loss of blood till four this morning. I have filled all thy India

handkerchiefs with it. It came, I think, from my heart. I fell asleep through weakness. At six I woke with the bosom of my shirt steeped in tears. I dreamt I was sitting under the canopy of Indolence, and that thou camest into the room with a shawl in thy hand, and told me my spirit had flown to thee in the Downs, with tidings of my fate; and that you were come to administer what consolation filial affection could bestow, and to receive my parting breath and blessing. With that you folded the shawl about my waist, and, kneeling, supplicated my attention. I awoke, but in what a frame! O my God! "But thou wilt number my tears, and put them all into thy bottle." Dear girl! I see thee; thou art forever present to my fancy, embracing my feeble knees and raising thy fine eyes to bid me be of comfort; and when I talk to Lydia1 the words of Esau, as uttered by thee, perpetually ring in my ears: "Bless me even also, my father!" Blessing attend thee, thou child of my heart!

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My bleeding is quite stopped, and I feel the principle of life strong within me; so be not alarmed, Eliza: I know I shall do well. I have eat my breakfast with hunger; and I write to thee with a pleasure arising from that prophetic im

1 Lydia was his daughter.

pression in my imagination, that "all will terminate to our heart's content." Comfort thyself eternally with this persuasion,-"that the best of Beings (as thou hast sweetly expressed it) could not, by a combination of accidents, produce such a chain of events merely to be the source of misery to the leading person engaged in them." The observation was very applicable, very good, and very elegantly expressed. I wish my memory did justice to the wording of it. Who taught you the art of writing so sweetly, Eliza? You have absolutely exalted it to a science. When I am in want of ready cash, and ill-health will not permit my genius to exert itself, I shall print your letters as finished essays, "by an unfortunate Indian Lady." The style is new, and would almost be a sufficient recommendation for their selling well, without merit; but their natural ease and spirit is not to be equalled, I believe, in this section of the globe, nor, I will answer for it, by any of your country women in yours. I have shown your letter to Mrs. B, and to half the literati in town. You shall not be angry with me for it, because I meant to do yon honour by it. You cannot imagine how many admirers your epistolary productions have gained you, that have never viewed your external merits. I only wonder

where thou couldst acquire thy graces, thy goodness, thy accomplishments, so connected! so educated! Nature has surely studied to make thee her peculiar care, for thou art (and not in my eyes alone) the best and fairest of all her works.

And this is the last letter thou art to receive from me; because the "Earl of Chatham" (I read in the papers) is got to Downs; and the wind, I find, is fair. If so, blessed woman! take my last, last farewell! Cherish the remembrance of me; think how I esteem, nay, how affectionately I love thee, and what a price I set upon thee! Adieu, adieu! and with my adieu let me give thee one straight rule of conduct, that thou hast heard from my lips in a thousand forms; but I concentrate it in one word,

REVERENCE THYSELF.

Adieu, once more, Eliza! May no anguish of heart plant a wrinkle upon thy face till I behold it again! May no doubt or misgivings disturb the serenity of thy mind, or awaken a painful thought about thy children; for they are Yorick's, and Yorick is thy friend forever. Adieu, adieu, adieu!