heart was ill at ease; but it was that silent and majestic sorrow which commands our reverence and our admiration.

Next morning after breakfast I chanced to take up a volume of Metastasio, that lay amongst other books upon a table; and as I was turning over the leaves, a slip of paper, with something written on it, dropped upon the floor. Mr. Wentworth picked it up; and as he looked at it, I saw the tears start from his eyes, and, fetching a deep sigh, he uttered in a low and broken voice, My poor Amelia !'-It was the translation of a favourite passage which she had been attempting, but had left unfinished. As if uneasy lest I had perceived his emotion, he carelessly threw his arm over my shoulder, and reading aloud a few lines of the page which I held in my hand, he went into some remarks on the poetry of that elegant author. Some time after, I observed him take up the book, and carefully replacing the slip of paper where it had been, put the volume in his pocket.

open

Mr. Wentworth proposed that we should walk out, and that he himself would accompany us. As we stepped through the hall, one of my friend's youngest boys came running up, and catching his papa by the hand, cried out with joy, that Mamma's Rover was returned. This was a spaniel who had been the favourite of Amelia, and had followed her in all her walks; but after her death had been sent to the house of a villager, to be out of the immediate sight of the family. Having somehow made its escape from thence, the dog had that morning found his way home; and, as soon as he saw Mr. Wentworth, leaped upon him with an excess of fondness. I saw my friend's lips and cheeks quiver. He catched his little Frank in his arms, and, for a few moments, hid his face in his neck.

As we traversed his delightful grounds, many different scenes naturally recalled the remembrance of Amelia. My friend, indeed, in order to avoid some of her favourite walks, had conducted us an unusual road; but what corner could be found that did not bear the traces of her hand? Her elegant taste had marked the peculiar beauty of each different scene, and had brought it forth to view with such a happy delicacy of art, as to make it seem the work of nature alone. As we crossed certain paths in the woods, and passed by some rustic buildings, I could sometimes discern an emotion in my friend's countenance; but he instantly stifled it with a firmness and dignity that made me careful not to seem to observe it.

Towards night, Mr. Wentworth having stolen out of the room, his brother and I stepped out to a terrace behind the house. It was the dusk of the evening, the air was mild and serene, and the moon was rising in all her brightness from the cloud of the east. The fineness of the night made us extend our walk, and we strayed into a hollow valley, whose sides are covered with trees overhanging a brook that pours itself along over broken rocks. We approached a rustic grotto, placed in a sequestered corner, under a half impending rock. My companion stopped. 6 This,' said he, was one of Amelia's walks, and that grotto was her favourite evening retreat. The last night she ever walked out, and the very evening she caught that fatal fever, I was with my brother and her, while we sat and read to each other in that very place.' While he spoke, we perceived a man steal out of the grotto, and, avoiding us, take his way by a path through a thicket of trees on the other side. It is my brother,' said young Wentworth ; 'he has been here in his Amelia's favourite grove, indulging that grief he so carefully conceals from us.'

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We returned to the house, and found Mr. Wentworth with the rest of the company. He forced on some conversation, and even affected a degree of gentle pleasantry during the whole evening.

Such, in short, is the noble deportment of my friend, that, in place of finding it necessary to temper and moderate his grief, I must avoid seeming to perceive it, and dare scarcely appear even to think of the heavy calamity which has befallen him. I too well know what he feels; but the more I know this, the more does the dignity of his recollection and fortitude excite my admiration, and command my silent attention and respect.

How very different is this dignified and reserved sorrow from that weak and teasing grief which disgusts, by its sighs and tears, and clamorous lamentations! How much does such noble fortitude of deportment call forth our regard and reverence! How much is a character in other respects estimable degraded by a contrary demeanour! How much does the excessive, the importunate, and unmanly grief of Cicero, diminish the very high respect which we should otherwise entertain for the exalted character of that illustrious Roman!

Writers on practical morality have described and analysed the passion of grief, and have pretended to prescribe remedies for restoring the mind to tranquillity; but, I believe, little benefit has been derived from any thing they have advised. To tell a person in grief that time will relieve him, is truly applying no remedy; and to bid him reflect how many others there may be who are more wretched, is a very inefficacious one. The truth is, that the excess of this, as well as of other passions, must be prevented rather than cured. It must be obviated by our attaining that evenness and equality of temper, which can arise

only from an improved understanding, and an habitual intercourse with refined society. These will not, indeed, exempt us from the pangs of sorrow, but will enable us to bear them with a noble grace and propriety, and will render the presence of our friends (which is the only remedy) a very effectual cure.

This is well explained by a philosopher, who is no less eloquent than he is profound. He justly observes, that we naturally, on all occasions, endeavour to bring down our own passions to that pitch which those about us can correspond with. We view ourselves in the light in which we think they view us, and seek to suit our behaviour to what we think their feelings can go along with. With an intimate friend, acquainted with every circumstance of our situation, we can, in some measure, give way to our grief, but are more calm than when by ourselves. Before a common acquaintance we assume a greater sedateness. Before a mixed assembly we affect a still more considerable degree of composure. Thus, by the company of our friends at first, and afterwards by mingling with society, we come to suit our deportment to what we think they will approve of; we gradually abate the violence of our passion, and restore our mind to its wonted tranquillity.

Y.

No. 28. SATURDAY, MAY 1, 1779.

Currit ad Indos,
Pauperiem fugiens.

HOR.

' AND did you not blush for our countrymen?' said Mr. Umphraville to Colonel Plum, as the latter was describing the sack of an Indian city, and the plunder of its miserable inhabitants, with the death of a Rajah who had gallantly defended it.

Not at all, sir,' answered the colonel coolly: 'our countrymen did no more than their duty; and were we to decline performing it on such occasions, we should be of little service to our country in India.'

Mr. Umphraville made no answer to this defence; but a silent indignation, which sat upon his countenance, implied a stronger disapprobation of it than the most laboured reply he could have offered.

For the same reason which induced him to avoid any farther discussion on the subject, my friend endeavoured to give the conversation a different turn. He led the colonel into a description of the country of India; and, as that gentleman described, in very lively colours, the beauty of its appearance, the number of its people, and the variety and richness of its productions, Mr. Umphraville listened to this part of his discourse with an uncommon degree of pleasure and attention.

But, after the colonel's departure (for this conversation happened during one of my excursions to Mr. Umphraville's, where Colonel Plum had been on a visit), the former part of the conversation recurred immediately to my friend's memory, and produced the following reflections.