it is to be feared, however we might be startled at first, that the impressions will scarce last longer than the instantaneous shock which occasioned them. And I make no doubt, should a man have courage to declare his opinion, 'that he believed it was an indication of God's anger upon a corrupt generation,' that it would be great odds but he would be pitied for his weakness, or openly laughed at for his superstition. Or if, after such a declaration, he was thought worth setting right in his mistakes, he would be informed that religion had nothing to do in explications of this kind; that all such violent vibrations of the earth were owing to subterraneous caverns falling down of themselves, or being blown up by nitrous and sulphureous vapours rarefied by heat; and that it was idle to bring in the Deity to untie the knot, when it can be resolved easily into natural causes. Vain unthinking mortals! As if natural causes were anything else in the hands of God but instruments, which he can turn to work the purposes of his will, either to reward or punish, as seems fitting to his infinite wisdom.

Thus no man repenteth him of his wickedness, saying, What have I done?-but every one turneth to his course as a horse rusheth into the battle. To conclude: However we may underrato it now, it is a maxim of eternal truth,

which both reasonings and all accounts from history confirm, that the wickedness and corruption of a people will sooner or later always bring on temporal mischiefs and calamities. And can it be otherwise? for a vicious nation not only carries the seeds of destruction within, from the natural workings and course of things, but it lays itself open to the whole force and injury of accidents from without; and I do venture to say there never was a nation or people fallen into troubles or decay, but one might justly leave the same remark upon them which the sacred historian makes in the text upon the misfortunes of the Israelites, -For so it was, that they had sinned against the Lord their God.

Let us therefore constantly bear in mind that conclusion of the sacred writer which I shall give you in his own beautiful and awful language:

'But the Lord, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt, with great power and a stretched-out arm, him shall ye fear, and him shall ye worship, and to him shall ye do sacrifice. And the statutes, and the ordinances, and the commandments he wrote for you, ye shall observe to do for evermore. The Lord your God ye shall fear, and he shall deliver you out of the hand of all your enemies.'

Now to God the Father, etc.

I. TO MISS L—.

:

YES! I will steal from the world, and not a babbling tongue shall tell where I am-Echo shall not so much as whisper my hiding-place suffer thy imagination to paint it as a little sungilt cottage on the side of a romantic hill-dost thou think I will leave love and friendship behind me? No! they shall be my companions in solitude, for they will sit down and rise up with me in the amiable form of my. We will be as merry and as innocent as our first parents in Paradise, before the arch-fiend entered that undescribable scene.

The kindest affections will have room to shoot and expand in our retirement, and produce such fruit as madness, and envy, and ambition have always killed in the bud. Let the human tempest and hurricane rage at a distance, the desolation is beyond the horizon of peace. My L- has seen a polyanthus blow in December-some friendly wall has sheltered it from the biting wind. No planetary influence shall reach us but that which presides and cherishes the sweetest flowers. God preserve us! how delightful this prospect in idea! We will build and we will plant in our own way-simplicity shall not be tortured by art—we will learn of nature how to live: she shall be our alchymist to mingle all the good of life into one salubrious draught. The gloomy family of care and distrust shall be banished from our dwelling, guarded by thy kind and tutelar deity: we will sing our choral songs of gratitude, and rejoice to the end of our pilgrimage.

Adieu, my L. Return to one who languishes for thy society. L. STERNE.

II. TO THE SAME.

You bid me tell you, my dear L-, how I bore your departure for S-, and whether the valley where D'Estella stands retains still its looks, or if I think the roses or jessamines smell as sweet

This and the three subsequent letters were written by Mr. Sterne to his wife, while she resided in Staffordshire, before their marriage.

as when you left it. Alas! everything has now lost its relish and look. The hour you left D'Estella I took to my bed. I was worn out with fevers of all kinds, but most by that fever of the heart with which thou knowest well I have been wasting these two years, and shall continue wasting till you quit S. The good Miss S-, from the forebodings of the best of hearts, thinking I was ill, insisted upon my going to her. What can be the cause, my dear L-, that I never have been able to see the face of this mutual friend but I feel myself rent to pieces? She made me stay an hour with her; and in that short space I burst into tears a dozen different times, and in such affectionate gusts of passion that she was constrained to leave the room and sympathize in her dressingroom. I have been weeping for you both, said she, in a tone of the sweetest pity-(for poor L-'s heart I have long known it, her anguish is as sharp as yours, her heart as tender, her constancy as great, her virtues as heroic)-Heaven brought you not together to be tormented. I could only answer her with a kind look and a heavy sigh, and returned home to your lodgings (which I have hired till your return), to resign myself to misery. Fanny had prepared me a supper-she is all attention to me; but I sat over it with tears-a bitter sauce, my L-; but I could eat it with no other, for the moment she began to spread my little table my heart fainted within

me.

One solitary plate, one knife, one fork, one glass: I gave a thousand pensive penetrating looks at the chair thou hadst so often graced in those quiet and sentimental repasts, then laid down my knife and fork, and took out my handkerchief, and clapped it across my face, and wept like a child. I do so this very moment, my L-; for as I take up my pen my poor pulse quickens, my pale face glows, and tears are trickling down upon the paper as I trace the word L. 0 thou blessed in thyself and in thy virtues— blessed to all that know thee-to me most so, because more do I know of thee than all thy sex! This is the philtre, my L-, by which thou hast charmed me, and by which thou wilt hold me thine, whilst virtue and faith hold this world together. This, my friend, is the plain

I

and simple magic by which I told Miss have won a place in that heart of thine, on which I depend so satisfied, that time or distance, or change of everything which might alarm the hearts of little men, create no uneasy suspense in mine. Wast thou to stay in S- these seven years, thy friend, though he would grieve, scorns to doubt or to be doubted,-'tis the only exception where security is not the parent of danger. I told you poor Fanny was all attention to me since your departure-contrives every day bringing in the name of L-. She told me last night (upon giving me some hartshorn), she had observed my illness began the very day of your departure for S-; that I had never held up my head, had seldom or scarce ever smiled, had fled from all society; that she verily believed I was broken-hearted, for she had never entered the room, or passed by the door, but she heard me sigh heavily; that I neither ate, or slept, or took pleasure in anything as before. Judge then, my L-, can the valley look so well, or the roses and jessamines smell so sweet as heretofore? Ah me! but adieu: the vesper bell calls me from thee to my God. L. STERNE.

III. TO THE SAME.

BEFORE now, my L- has lodged an indictment against me in the high court of Friendship; I plead guilty to the charge, and entirely submit to the mercy of that amiable tribunal. Let this mitigate my punishment, if it will not expiate my transgression: do not say that I shall offend again in the same manner, though a too easy pardon sometimes occasions a repetition of the same fault. A miser says, Though I do no good with my money to-day, to-morrow shall be marked with some deed of beneficence. libertine says, Let me enjoy this week in forbidden and luxurious pleasures, and the next I will dedicate to serious thought and reflection. The gamester says, Let me have one more chance with the dice, and I will never touch them more. The knave of every profession wishes to obtain but independency, and he will become an honest man. The female coquette triumphs in tormenting her inamorato, for fear, after marriage, he should not pity her.

be bestowed with more liberality. We cannot gather grapes from thorns, so we must not expect kind attachments from persons who are wholly folded up in selfish schemes. I do not know whether I most despise or pity such characters. Nature never made an unkind creature; ill-usage and bad habits have deformed a fair and lovely creation.

My L, thou art surrounded by all the melancholy gloom of winter: wert thou alone, the retirement would be agreeable. ambition might envy such a retreat, and disDisappointed appointed love would seek it out. Crowded towns, and busy societies, may delight the unthinking and the gay, but solitude is the best nurse of wisdom. Methinks I see my contemplative girl now in the garden, watching the gradual approaches of spring. Dost not thou mark with delight the first vernal buds? The snow-drop and primrose, these early and welcome visitors, spring beneath thy feet, Flora and Pomona already consider thee as their handmaid; and in a little time will load thee with their sweetest blessing. The feathered race are all thy own; and with them, untaught harmony will soon begin to cheer thy morning and evening walks. Sweet as this may be, return-return. The birds of Yorkshire will tune their pipes, and sing as melodiously as those of Staffordshire.

my peace. Adieu, my beloved L-, thine too much for L. STERNE.

IV. TO THE SAME.

The apparition of the fifth instant (for letters may almost be called so) proved more welcome, as I did not expect it. Oh, my L-, thou art kind indeed to make an apology for me, and thou never wilt assuredly repent of one act of kindness; for being thy debtor, I will pay thee with interest. Why does my L- complain of the desertion of friends? Where does the human being live that will not join in this complaint? It is a common observation, and perhaps too true, that married people seldom extend their regards beyond their own fireside. There is such a thing as parsimony in esteem, as well as money; yet, as one costs nothing, it might

never