how pleased I am to think that, although you still regret Oakwood, you can find some pleasures in your present life.  The society you describe must be agreeable.  I could scarcely, however, refrain from smiling at your simplicity, my dear Emmeline, in imagining that all who visited at your father’s house would be as delightful and estimable as those whom your second letter so eloquently described.  Why are we so constantly commanded to be charitable in our intercourse one with another?  Must it not be because our Great Master knew that we all had failings, some more than others? if all were as worthy and virtuous as some appear, there would be no need to practise such a virtue; but it is in a mixed society it is more frequently called into play.  More, would we preserve our own virtue and piety, we must be charitable.  We must look on the weaknesses of our fellow-creatures with mercy and kindness, or how can we demand it for ourselves?  I am no advocate for seclusion in general, though my own feelings prefer a quiet life.  I think a life of retirement is apt to render us selfish, and too positive in the wisdom and purity of our own notions, too prejudiced against the faults of our fellows.  Society is a mirror, where we can see human character reflected in a variety of shades, and thereby, if our minds be so inclined, we may attain a better knowledge of ourselves.  If, before we condemned others, we looked into our own hearts, we are likely to become more charitable and more humble at the same moment, and our own conduct necessarily becomes more guarded.  But with your mother, my Emmeline, and your open heart—­unsophisticated as it may be—­you will never go far wrong.  Mamma is looking anxiously at me, as if she feared I am exerting myself too much.  I feel my cheeks are painfully flushed, and therefore I will obey her gentle hint.  Farewell, my Emmeline; may you long be spared the sorrows that have lately wrung the heart of your attached and constant friend,

MARY GREVILLE.

From Mrs. Hamilton to Miss Greville.

London, March 20th.

Your letter to Emmeline, my dear young friend, I have read with feelings both of pain and pleasure, and willingly, most willingly, do I comply with your request, that I would write to you, however briefly.  Your despondency is natural, and yet it is with delight I perceive through its gloom those feelings of faith and duty, which your sense of religion has made so peculiarly your own.  I sympathise, believe me, from my heart, in those trials which your very delicate health renders you so little able to bear.  I will not endeavour by words of consolation to alleviate their severity, for I know it would be in vain.  In your earliest youth I endeavoured to impress upon your mind that we are not commanded to check every natural feeling.  We are but told to pour before God our trouble, to lean on His mercy, to trust in His providence, to restrain our lips from murmuring, and if we do so, though our tears may fall, and our