 a long chain of events—This moment may decide your future destiny and mine—it may, even, affect that of unborn myriads! My spirit is pervaded with these important ideas—my heart flutters—I breathe with difficulty—My friend—I would give myself to you—the gift is not worthless. Pause a moment, ere you rudely throw from you an affection so tried, so respectable, so worthy of you! The heart may be compelled—compelled by the touching sympathies which bind, with sacred, indissoluble ties, mind to mind! Do not prepare for yourself future remorse—when lost, you may recollect my worth, and my affection, and remember them with regret—Yet mistake me not, I have no intention to intimidate—I think it my duty to live, while I may possibly be useful to others, however bitter and oppressive may be that existence. I will live for duty, though peace and enjoyment should be for ever fled. You may rob me of my happiness, you may rob me of my strength, but, even, you cannot destroy my principles. And, if no other motive with-held me from rash determinations, my tenderness for you (it is not a selfish tenderness), would prevent me from adding, to the anxieties I have already given you, the cruel pang, of feeling yourself the occasion, however unintentionally, of the destruction of a fellow creature.

'While I await your answer, I summon to my heart all its remaining strength and spirits. Say to me, in clear and decisive terms, that the obstacles which oppose my affection are absolutely, and altogether, insuperable—Or that there is a possibility of their removal, but that time and patience are, yet, necessary to determine their force. In this case, I will not disturb the future operations of your mind, assuring myself, that you will continue my suspence no longer than is proper and requisite—or frankly accept, and return, the faith of her to whom you are infinitely dearer than life itself!

'Early to-morrow morning, a messenger shall call for the paper, which is to decide the colour of my future destiny. Every moment, that the blow has been suspended, it has acquired additional force—since it must, at length, descend, it would be weakness still to desire its protraction—We have, already, refined too much—I promise to live—more, alas! I cannot promise.

'Farewel! dearest and most beloved of men—whatever may be my fate—be happiness yours! Once more, my lingering, foreboding heart, repeats farewel!

'Emma.'

It would be unnecessary to paint my feelings during the interval in which I waited a reply to this
