seemed always on the alarm, whenever you were mentioned; and, at last, after many importunities on my part, he confessed to me that you were considered, by those most intimate with you, to be greatly changed,—that the approach of death had been dreadfully alarming to you,and that, in short, it had actually terrified you into fanaticism.

How. Terrified me into fanaticism! Did Harley say so of me; and could he believe it?

CON. He said, that for a time he could not. He, however, had it not in his power himself to see you; and, at last, he found it impossible to disbelieve what was told him by some of your most intimate friends, who had seen and conversed with you, and over whom you still possessed such influence, that they actually seemed themselves to be infected with your fanaticism, and attempted to defend it. Poor Harley himself spoke of you with a gravity very unusual to him. "Ah! Conway!" he said to me, "we may all tremble now at the approach of sickness. It has subdued the strongest mind, and the noblest spirit amongst us."

How. (thoughtfully.) Terrified into fanaticism! So that is what is said of me,—and it is to that supposition, then, that I perhaps owe those looks of contempt, which from some quarters I find it so ill to bear. Well, adieu to pride of character, at least. But go on, Conway.

2

CON. Why should I go on! I only pain you. How. No, no,-go on. I wish to hear all ; and you have promised, Conway.

CON. Well, dear Howard, I heard many such reports about you; some rather inconsistent with others. At one time I was informed by an English gentleman, who, however, allowed that he was not personally acquainted with you, that you had changed your party in politics, and now constantly opposed ministers. I was soon after told, by our old acquaintance, Colonel Gray, that your new opinions gave you considerable influence with some men, with whom your superior talents never would have given you any; but that, joined to such opinions, they were rejoiced to avail themselves of those talents: and that you, therefore, were known to carry a considerable number of votes, which ministers could always count upon. I need not repeat those contradictory reports respecting your public character, all of which, however, agreed in the one point, that you were altogether changed. I heard almost as many reports regarding your private conduct. I was told, that you yourself prayed extempore in your family,—that you heard fanatical preachers, that you received no visits on Sunday, nor would listen on that day to one word on business, however important,— and, my dear Howard, that your family were treated with severity by you, at least Charles,

though to the death of poor Arthur I had heard partly ascribed the unaccountable change in your character.

How. Why, Conway, did you not apply to myself for an explanation of all those contradictions?

CON. Because, my dear Howard, I could not conceal from myself that the strain of your letters was really changed. I tried to make myself believe, that the reports I had heard perhaps influenced me while I read, but it was impossible to convince myself of this. Your letters are changed, Howard, in their whole character; and I confess, without further reserve, that you are right in your supposition. I have returned to England, the first time I could feel at sufficient ease about Maria to leave her, for no other purpose than to see and judge for myself, whether I was so unaccountably deceived, or whether you were really changed, and now I am almost at as great a loss as ever, for I see no change.— Yet, somehow

How. (Smiling.) Somehow I am not the same.
CON. I know not how it is, but

How. Do not puzzle yourself, my dear Conway, to discover what it is about me that leads you to believe, you can scarcely tell why, that I am changed, that I am not exactly what I was when we last met. The truth is, Conway, that I am not. You shall know all respecting this

change that I myself know. It is not only in my opinions, it is infinitely more in my feelings; and in both, most particularly so with regard to the Supreme Being, and the relation which man bears to him. How often have you and I, dear Conway, compared our opinions and feelings on those most important subjects. When we last met, we were nearly of the same mind regarding them. With what composure have we at times traced the character of the God of our conceptions, after having admired the wonderful order of his heavens, and the exalted sublimity, and touching beauty of the works of nature.

CON. Yes, Howard: and why not with composure? Is not a calm and rational state of mind the most suitable, when attempting to conceive or to trace the character of the Supreme Being?

How. Yes, Conway. Certainly we ought to trace the attributes of that Being from whom we received existence, and with whom we expect to pass eternity, with every power of our souls deeply and solemnly engaged, and as free as possible from all distraction. But what I wished to recal to your remembrance, was the remark we so often made, in the days of our warmest emotions, Conway, that while nature was before us,➡while we gazed on the mingled grandeur, and softness, and tenderness, of a glorious sunset, for instance, or autumn moon-light, we did

not reason, we loved, we adored. It was when the impression was past that we began to reason. We considered the result of those reasonings very beneficial to us, and those moments of rapture which led to them as the purest and sweetest of our lives, and I doubt not they did tend to calm and elevate our minds. But, Conway, did we after all know God? or did we in truth ever worship him?

- CON. Did you not say this moment, Howard, that on viewing the sublimity and beauty of God's creation, we loved, we adored?

How. Yes, Conway: our hearts were filled to painfulness with feelings of love and adoration, but on what or whom did we bestow those full affections? We gazed on the loveliness of creation, till our hearts panted to find and love its Creator,-but did we find him? We retired and became calm; and recollecting the beautiful order of the heavens, and the profusion of charm that was displayed through all nature, we saw dimly that he who created and sustained the greatness, and minuteness, and loveliness, and order of the whole, must himself be inconceivably great, and inconceivably wise, and inconceivably lovely, and we felt that in our natures we were at an inconceivable distance from him; and he passed from our thoughts as altogether inconceivable, while we believed, that, amidst the wonderful vastness of his providence, we, as a