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of the hero ;—those times when the approach of danger filled his heart with exultation, and gave vigour tohis nerves-*-when the moon ihone Upon his bark, laden with the spoils of his enemies, and lighted up hi» triumph*—when I read in his countenance his deep sorrow—when I see his finking glory tottering towards the grave-*-when he casts a look on the cold earth which is to cover him, and cries out, " The traveller will come, he will come who has seen my beauty, and he will ask, where is the bard, where is the illustrious son of Fingal? he will walk ever my tomb, and he will seek me

in vain !"—Then, O my friend! I could instantly, like a true and noble knight, draw my sword, and rescue my prince from long and painful languor, and afterwards plunge it into my own breast, to follow the demi-god whom my hand set free.

LETTER LXIL

October \g, \ LAS! the void, the fearful void "*■ .*• I feel in my bosom—Sometimes I think, if I could but once, only once press her to my heart, I should be happy,

F 4 LET

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LETTER LXIII.

26th October. T AM convinced, my dear friend, more and more convinced, that the existence of any one being whatever is of little, very little consequence. A friend of Charlotte's came just now to make her a visit: I withdrew, and took up a book in the next room ; but I could not read, and therefore I write to you. I hear their conversation: they are only talking of the news of the town; one is going to be married, another is ill, very ill. "She has a dry cough and frequent faintings; she cannot

recover, recover," says one. "N. is very ill too," says Charlotte. "He begins to swell already," answers the other: And my imagination suddenly carries me to their sick beds; I see them struggling against approaching death, in all the agonies of pain and horror. I see them—And these good little women are talking of it with the same indifference that one would mention the death of a stranger.— And when I look at the apartment in which I now am, when I see Charlotte's apparel lying round me; here upon this little table are her earrings, Albert's papers, all the things which are so familiar to me, the very

inkstand inkstand I now use; and that I think. what I am to this family — every thing—.my friends esteem me, are made happy by me, and my heart cannot conceive that any thing could exist without them; and yet if I was now to go, if I was to quit this circle, would they feel, how long would they feel that void in their life,which the loss of me would leave? How long—yes, such is the frailty of man, that there where he most feels his own existence, where his presence makes a real and a strong impression, even in the memory of those who are dear to him; there also he must perish and vanish away, and

that so quickly!

LETTER

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