chance for happiness in this disastrous world.  George Venables had the reputation of being attentive to business, and my father’s example gave great weight to this circumstance; for habits of order in business would, he conceived, extend to the regulation of the affections in domestic life.  George seldom spoke in my uncle’s company, except to utter a short, judicious question, or to make a pertinent remark, with all due deference to his superior judgment; so that my uncle seldom left his company without observing, that the young man had more in him than people supposed.

“In this opinion he was not singular; yet, believe me, and I am not swayed by resentment, these speeches so justly poized, this silent deference, when the animal spirits of other young people were throwing off youthful ebullitions, were not the effect of thought or humility, but sheer barrenness of mind, and want of imagination.  A colt of mettle will curvet and shew his paces.  Yes; my dear girl, these prudent young men want all the fire necessary to ferment their faculties, and are characterized as wise, only because they are not foolish.  It is true, that George was by no means so great a favourite of mine as during the first year of our acquaintance; still, as he often coincided in opinion with me, and echoed my sentiments; and having myself no other attachment, I heard with pleasure my uncle’s proposal; but thought more of obtaining my freedom, than of my lover.  But, when George, seemingly anxious for my happiness, pressed me to quit my present painful situation, my heart swelled with gratitude—­I knew not that my uncle had promised him five thousand pounds.

“Had this truly generous man mentioned his intention to me, I should have insisted on a thousand pounds being settled on each of my sisters; George would have contested; I should have seen his selfish soul; and—­gracious God! have been spared the misery of discovering, when too late, that I was united to a heartless, unprincipled wretch.  All my schemes of usefulness would not then have been blasted.  The tenderness of my heart would not have heated my imagination with visions of the ineffable delight of happy love; nor would the sweet duty of a mother have been so cruelly interrupted.

“But I must not suffer the fortitude I have so hardly acquired, to be undermined by unavailing regret.  Let me hasten forward to describe the turbid stream in which I had to wade—­but let me exultingly declare that it is passed—­my soul holds fellowship with him no more.  He cut the Gordian knot, which my principles, mistaken ones, respected; he dissolved the tie, the fetters rather, that ate into my very vitals—­and I should rejoice, conscious that my mind is freed, though confined in hell itself, the only place that even fancy can imagine more dreadful than my present abode.

“These varying emotions will not allow me to proceed.  I heave sigh after sigh; yet my heart is still oppressed.  For what am I reserved?  Why was I not born a man, or why was I born at all?”