PART V.

Mrs. Chapone on a recent domestic affliction-Madame d'Arblay's consolation-Death of Mr. Seward-Wesley-Visit to Dr. Herschel-The Royal Family on Windsor terrace-The King's recognition of Dr. Burney-His Majesty's musicroom-Conversation of the King-the Queen's kindness to Madame d'Arblay-The Princess of W- -s-News from France-State of Ireland-Letter from the Comte de Narbonne to the Chevalier d'Arblay-The Emperor's Hymn and Suwarrow's march-Dancing Legislators.

PART V.

1799.

Mrs. Chapone to Madame d'Arblay.

MY DEAR MADAM,-If you have heard of the most recent of all my afflictions, the death of my darling niece in childbirth (which happened not quite a month after the loss of my dearest brother),-you will not wonder that I have not been able to thank you for your last kind favour. It grieves me to think of the anxiety you have suffered for your lovely boy, nor shall I ever forget the tenderness you showed for me before you knew how completely all hopes of comfort respecting this world for my latter days were taken from me: but the hopes of another, I thank God, draw every day into a nearer view, and I trust will supply me with "patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill."

I had, with the folly and ignorance of human schemes, thought of seeking an asylum from the aching void I must every hour feel in London, by changing my abode to Winchester, where I expected my two kind nieces would soothe my heart and close my eyes; but this unexpected and most afflicting stroke, by taking away the next dearest object of my affection, has shown me where only I can look for support, and where I have hitherto found it in as great a degree as I could have expected.

Though I have still a niece, for whom I have great love and esteem, I know not yet what her own plans may be, nor whether Winchester will not now be the most melancholy scene for us both that we could fix on: so that I am inclined to no other exertion but waiting where I am, with humble submission and acquiescence, for

“Kind Nature's signal of retreat."

In the mean time I should be ungrateful for your kind solicitude if I did not mention the comfort I receive from that excellent man Mr. Pepys, whom you esteem, but whose worthy heart you do not half know, and whom compassion has improved, from a delightful companion and intimate old acquaintance, to the most tender, attentive, and affectionate son to me. All my other friends, too, have exceeded all my expectations in their attentions

to me.

I hope soon to hear that your heart is quite at rest about M. d'Arblay and your son. Writing is at present so difficult and painful to me that I must bid you adieu, with the most grateful sense of your compassion for me, and every kind wish for yourself and M. d'Arblay. Ever, dear Madam,

Your sincerely affectionate and obliged,

H. CHAPONE.

Have you yet read Mrs. H. More's new work? Don't. you be idle.

Madame d'Arblay to Mrs. Chapone.

Westhamble, April 4th, '99.

IT was from your own affecting account, my dear Madam, that I learned your irreparable loss, though a letter by the same post from my sister Burney confirmed

the melancholy intelligence. I will not attempt to say with what extreme concern I have felt it. Your " darling niece," though I must now be glad I had never seen, I had always fancied I had known, from the lively idea you had enabled me, in common with all others, to form of what she ought to be. If this second terrible trial, and the manner in which you have supported it, had not shown me my mistake, I should have feared, from the agonized expression of your countenance-which I cannot forget-in our last mournful interview, that the cup was already full! But it is not for nothing you have been gifted, or that so early you were led to pray "the ill you might not shun, to bear." Misfortunes of this accumulated I had nearly said desolating-nature, always of late years sharpen to me the horrors of that part of the French Revolution which, to lessen the dread of guilt, gives death to eternal sleep. What alleviation can there be for sufferers who have imbibed such doctrine? I want to disperse among them an animated translation of the false principles, beautiful conviction, and final consolations of Fidelia. For since, in this nether sphere, with all our best hopes alive of times to come,

"Ev'n Virtue sighs, while poor Affection mourns
The blasted comforts of the desert heart,"

what must sorrow be where calamity sees no opening to future light? and where friends, when separated, can mark no haven for a future reunion, but where all terminates for ever in the poor visible grave?—against which all our conceptions and perceptions so entirely revolt, that I, for one, can never divest the idea of annihilation from despair.

I read with much more pleasure than surprise what you say of Mr. Pepys : I should have been disappointed

indeed had he proved a "summer friend." Yet I have found many more such, I confess, than I had dreamed of in my poor philosophy, since my retirement from the broad circle of life has drawn aside a veil which, till then, had made profession wear the same semblance as friendship. But few, I believe, escape some of these lessons, which are not, however, more mortifying in the expectations they destroy than gratifying in those they confirm. You will be sure, dear Madam, but I hope not angrily, of one honour I am here venturing to give myself.

Yours, &c.
F. D'A.

M. d'A. entreats you to accept his sincerest respects.

Madame d'Arblay to Mrs. Lock.

Westhamble, May 2nd, 1799.

POOR Mr. Seward! I am indeed exceedingly concerned-nay, grieved-for his loss to us: to us I trust I may say; for I believe he was so substantially good a creature, that he has left no fear or regret merely for himself. He fully expected his end was quickly approaching. I saw him at my father's at Chelsea, and he spent almost a whole morning with me in chatting of othe times, as he called it; for we travelled back to Streatham, Dr. Johnson, and the Thrales. But he told me he knew his disease incurable. Indeed, he had passed a quarter of an hour in recovering breath, in a room with the servants, before he let me know he had mounted the College stairs. My father was not at home. He had thought himself immediately dying, he said, four days before, by certain sensations that he believed to be fatal, but he mentioned it with cheerfulness; and though active