 (it said) 'to one who had made the human heart his study, who could not be affected by them improperly. It spoke of the illusions of the passions—of the false and flattering medium through which they presented objects to our view. He had answered my letter earlier, had it not involved him in too many thoughts to do it with ease. There was a great part of it to which he knew not how to reply—perhaps, on some subjects, it was not necessary to be explicit. And now, it may be, he had better be silent—he was dissatisfied with what he had written, but, were he to write again, he doubted if he should please himself any better.—He was highly flattered by the favourable opinion I entertained of him, it was a grateful proof, not of his merit, but of the warmth of my friendship, &c. &c.'

This letter appeared to me vague, obscure, enigmatical. Unsatisfied, disappointed, I felt, I had little to hope—and, yet, had no distinct ground of fear. I brooded over it, I tortured its meaning into a hundred forms—I spake of it to my friend, but in general terms, in which she seemed to acquiesce: she appeared to have made a determination, not to enquire after what I was unwilling to disclose; she wholly confided both in my principles, and in those of her son: I was wounded by what, entangled in prejudice, I conceived to be a necessity for this reserve.

Again I addressed the man, whose image, in the absence of all other impressions, I had suffered to gain in my mind this dangerous ascendency.

 

TO AUGUSTUS HARLEY.

'I, once more, take up my pen with a mind so full of thought, that I foresee I am about to trespass on your time and patience—yet, perhaps, to one who makes "the human heart his study," it may not be wholly uninteresting to trace a faithful delineation of the emotions and sentiments of an ingenuous, uncorrupted, mind—a mind formed by solitude, and habits of reflection, to some strength of character.

'If to have been more guarded and reserved would have been more discreet, I have already forfeited all claim to this discretion—to affect it now, would be vain, and, by pursuing a middle course, I should resign the only advantage I may ever derive from my sincerity, the advantage of expressing my thoughts and feelings with freedom.

'The conduct, which I have been led to adopt, has been the result of a combination of peculiar circumstances, and is not
