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meant by mind. I now ask you, in re turn, to satisfy yourself what is the exact meaning of design. Must not a plan or design consist, in the mind which conceives it, of various thoughts or ideas adjusted to each other? Do these then exist in this separate form in the Deity? If they do, we again light up on all the consequences of anthropomorphism. Or, if design in the Deity is different from design in the human mind, then how is it design? is it not something we know not what? and are we not talking mysticism, or, in other words, unintelligibly? The question was your own formerly, and I have not yet heard it answered.

It would indeed be absurd, Pamphilus, (he replied,) to affirm, that, upon subjects of this lofty nature, there cannot be started puzzles which are beyond the reach of the human understanding. I surely will not pretend to give you an insight into the intelligence of the Deity, or explain to you either its mode of being or its manner of operation. All that I am acquaint ed with are its effects. These speak to my mind the same language as the effects of human intelligence. Perhaps the thoughts of every mind are arranged differently. Your intelligence may be something very different from mine, but its operations are similar. Or, when we talk of a division of thoughts, are we not borrowing our language from the material world, and speaking of the mind as if it were something extended? In short, every man has but a very obscure and rapid view of the operations of his own intellect; however, in the effects which follow from them, he reads design with sufficient distinctness; he discovers the same principle in the operations of other men; he finds it likewise in the works of the Deity.

Without going any farther (replied I) into points of so much abstruseness, you will yet permit me to hesitate before I give my assent to your assertion, that all the other perfections of mind must accompany that of design. May there not be a being merely speculative, without any active faculties; and what do you say to that large class of qualities which we call moral? Must they likewise be the necessary concomitants of intelligence?

I may admit (said he) the possible existence of a simple intelligence, devoid of any active principle; but any

VOL. VII.

being with whose intelligence I become acquainted must act. I have no faculties by which I can be informed of the intellectual qualities of other beings, except from their works or operations. Were there no creation, I should never have known the existence of the divine mind. But creation implies action, or, in other words, volition and its consequences. The production of the universe, therefore, at the same moment that it makes us acquainted with the wisdom which projected it, informs us likewise of the will which caused it, or the discovery of the Divine intelligence must be accompanied in our minds with the discovery of his volition.

The mighty difficulty, however, (replied I,) relates to the moral attri butes. A being may have intelligence and the power of volition; but, if we see no more, can we attach to him the notions of excellence or goodness? It was here, Philo, that you combated with most success the received notions of Deity; and, unless we are convinced that God is good, where, after all, can be our sentiments of religion? (To be continued.)

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I FIRST Woke to the consciousness of existence in the form of a plant of flax, and expanded my blue petals to the glow of a meridian sun in the fertile plains of Cambray.

I shall not dwell on the sensations which I experienced during these few and happy hours, when I waved my light flowers in the gentle breeze, while the butterfly rested on my slender stalk, the blithe insects flew in airy circles around me, and the birds, with joyous carols, filled the air with harmony. Suddenly I was seized by a ruthless peasant, who dragged me from my parent soil, and laid me on an heap with many thousands of my languishing fellows. A darkness and insensibility came over me-I lost all power of observation, and retained not even the sense of existence, but by feeling the torment of a heaviness and oppression, which all who have felt it, know to be worse than pain.

I cannot say how long I continued in this state, for slowly do the hours

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pass that are loaded with misery. At length I emerged once more to light and life, and found myself lying on a table in the form of a cambric handkerchief, in a splendid apart ment, which, as I afterwards found, belonged to the Hotel de B in Paris. The room, though brilliantly fitted up, was rendered gloomy and sepulchral, by the quantities of black draperies that were disposed around it.

Presently a lady entered the apartment, leaning on a very pretty, but pensive, young woman. The lady was apparently past the bloom of youth, and was clothed in the deepest widow's mourning. On entering, she stopt, and gazed around, and then said, in no very gracious tone of voice, to the dejected girl by her side, "Very well, Agatha, for once you have done me the favour to try to please me; on the whole, every thing is very tolerably arranged; but we must make a few alterations."

She then, while her attendant seemed wearied both in spirit and in body, caused her to make a thousand little frivolous changes in the folds and hangings of the black draperies.

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When this was at last completed, she threw herself, in a fine attitude, into an arm-chair. Now," said she, "I can indulge myself in grief." She then, taking me in her hand, seemed to endeavour to deceive herself into the belief that she was shedding a flood of tears. After a proper time, she discontinued the semblance of woe, and took up a book that had been placed on the table.

"How is this?" said she,—“ What could you mean by laying this book on the table when I am expecting visits of condolence?"

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"I thought, Madam," replied the trembling Agatha," you would like the book that appeared to amuse you so much last night."

66 True, child, but it is a different thing reading in company, and reading alone: here, quick, hide it behind the cushion, and give me Massillon's Sermons, and the Mystics of Madame Guyon."

These arrangements were scarcely made when company arrived, and there followed a long scene of the hypocrisy of grief on one side, and the hypocrisy of sympathy on the other. I remarked one young man, who was

more particularly assiduous to the widow, and in whom there appeared an air of design and artifice that excited my suspicions. For this reason I watched him narrowly. He was tolerably handsome, and evidently thought himself exceedingly so. His dress was studiously a-la-mode, though, with all his endeavours, he could not set it off with the true air of gentility; and there was besides a kind of vaurien expression in his countenance that made me in my heart (for cambric handkerchiefs have hearts) take a dislike to him.

The conversation, as was highly proper, was chiefly on the merits of the deceased; and the affliction of the widow appeared excessive, though I, who had an opportunity of knowing how the matter stood, can safely aver she did not shed a tear. She expatiated on her lamented husband's merits, and especially on his great liberality.

"Do you know, my friends, that noble, generous man, has left every thing to me."

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Generous, noble man!" was echoed by the circle of sympathetic friends, who seemed to be performing the part of a chorus.

"And every thing in my own power," added the widow.

"Excellent worthy man!" was reiterated round the room.

"I thought," said M. de Chambeau, the young man I have been describing, "that great part of M. de B's property went to the young Gs, his heirs-at-law ?"

"Not a livre," said the widow ; not a month before my lamented husband's death, he agreed to pay their father's debts, on condition that they relinquished their own claims on his estate.

"I hope," said M. de Chambeau, "it was not a large sum he had to pay?

"O no! something very inconsiderable, but the sons were willing to make any sacrifice to save their father from prison.”

"How fortunate!" went round the circle.

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up, to leave them any power of refusing to abide by them; besides, the elder is now dying of a broken heart, and the younger is going to seek his fortune with the South American insurgents, so there is no fear that either of them can disturb my dear departed husband's generous bequest."

Here a few broken sobs made a very judicious termination of the widow's speech; while excellent man!" magnificent legacy!" "charming sensibility!" was repeated at proper intervals by the chorus.

At length all the company departed, except M. de Chambeau, who, as soon as he was alone with the lady, began a long tirade on his long nourished passion for her on his fears-on his hopes on his desperation. The lady heard him at first with frowns and reproaches: at last her grief for the husband who was departed, was succeeded by compassion for the lover who was present; and M. de Chambeau threw himself on his knees before her, exclaiming, "O! ever be loved creature, let me not languish out my life in hopeless expectation; at least permit me to look forwards to a period that may terminate my sufferings, and put me in possession of

all I love on earth."

The lady was silent, but he mark ed the relenting of her eye, and continued, "Allow me to name this day fortnight for our happy nuptials."

"This day fortnight, Sir!" exclaimed the lady, "consider the respect I owe to the memory of the deceased, to the world,-to myself, consider my excessive grief, consider a fortnight! impossible! at least let it be three weeks.'

At this moment I became too much occupied by my own misfortunes to observe how much farther the contest proceeded; for in the moment of agitation, the widow had suffered me to fall on the floor, where I became the prey of a mischievous little French lapdog, who amused himself with tearing me to shreds. I cannot say that my sufferings under this operation were acute, though they were very distressing, and were succeeded by a faint ness and insensibility, which rendered my existence for a time a total blank.

CHAP. II.

I conjecture that I remained in this melancholy condition many months.

At length a return of sensation began to creep over me, consisting at first in little else than an extreme pressure. On the removal of the pressure, I started suddenly into the knowledge of a great improvement in my order of being, and perceived myself to be no less a person than the Morning Post of January 31, 1820, and that Ĭ had a deep black edge round my margin, as an expression of grief for the news I contained of the death of the good old King George III. I had no time for making farther observations, as I was seized instantly by a dirty boy, who, with haste and importance in his looks, hurried me and several others like myself through the streets of London. After leaving many of my companions at different places, it was my luck to be left at a large house in Square.

After being examined and well commented upon by the porter and a bevy of footmen, I was taken up stairs, and laid on the breakfast-table of a very elegant apartment.

Here I was left alone, and had time to look about me, and consider my situation. My attention was soon rivetted by a full length portrait of a young female. The candour and innocence of youth sat upon the brow, cheerfulness beamed through every feature, and the beautiful lips that were a little parted, seemed to be saying: "Look at me, for I am good and happy."

I was so much absorbed in contemplating this lovely picture, that I was scarcely aware that a lady and gentleman had entered the room, and were seated at breakfast, till the lady took me up. I then immediately saw that she was the original of the portrait I had been admiring; but O how changed! Instead of that sweet and happy expression of countenance, she wore the haggard, dissipated look of a thorough votary of fashion-restlessness and anxiety were visible in her eye, peevishness and discontent in her mouth. The same delicacy of complexion and regularity of features remained, but all their charm was gone.

I turned from this painful contrast, to examine the gentleman. His air and figure were strikingly dignified and elegant; his face might, perhaps, be called plain, but was highly pleasing, from the expression in it of sound

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good sense and integrity, though conscience, the sense of what she owes somewhat clouded by thoughtfulness. "How odious this long mourning will be!" said the lady.

The gentleman made no reply. "However," resumed she," there will be a coronation. It will be delightful to walk at a coronation."

The gentleman was still silent. At length, after several equally frivolous observations from the lady on the solemn and affecting subject of her Monarch's death, the gentleman broke silence, and, drawing his chair nearer to her, said," You will oblige me, Lady Mary, by laying aside the paper, and giving me an opportunity of speaking to you."

She tossed me down, with no winning grace, saying,-" Well, Sir William, I am ready to hear what you have to say."

"What I have to say, Madam," replied he, "will not please you-but I should be most unjust to you and to myself if I did not say it."

"The old story, I suppose," said Lady Mary, seeming to case-harden herself with a look of callous indiffer

ence.

"You very well know," resumed Sir William," that I have long disapproved of your allowing that foolish young Guardsman to accompany you everywhere. Do not suppose that I am jealous of him. I would not think so ill of you, nor so ill of myself, as to suffer that baleful passion to harbour in my breast; but to see you loved, and honoured, and respected by others, by the wise and good, as you are by me, is the wish nearest my heart; and how can you be so, while your conduct in public is both childish and indiscreet ?"

I saw she was touched, but pride little, contemptible, female pride kept down the more worthy emotion; and, with the tone of a person highly affronted, she retorted,

"Well, Sir, and am I not respected? What woman of quality can be more noticed and admired than myself?"

"Your rank," replied he, "gives you place, your elegance and beauty gain you admiration; but is there not something more than this which a wise and virtuous woman would desire? Is not the respect of all good people, the approbation of her own

"It is extremely hard," said the lady, interrupting him, and rising with an air of resentment; "it is extremely hard, Sir William, that you should presume to find fault with my conduct, considering the fortune and consequence you have acquired by marrying me.'

"It will be well, Madam, for us both," said Sir William, with a tone of great solemnity, "if I acquire no disgrace. It is my duty, though a duty I should be gladly spared, to admonish you of your errors; and no consideration upon earth shall ever make me forego what I believe to be my duty."

Saying this, he left the room, and Lady Mary, retiring also, and taking me with her, threw herself on a sofa in an adjoining apartment. She attempted to read, but I saw she could not comprehend a word. I saw rising in her mind regret and dissatisfaction with herself, and an increased respect for her husband. I thought again of the lovely picture of what she had once been, and what she might be again-and my heart palpitated, (for I have said before that I had a heart,) and, by an almost supernatural effect, I contrived to unfold to her view one of my columns, in which, in giving a picture of the deceased King's character, were displayed the happiness and the dignity of a virtuous married life; and gladly did I receive a tear of regret and compunction on the page.

At that moment a lady entered, whom I perceived, by her tone of servility, to be a sort of satellite.

"In tears, my sweetest Lady Mary! what can be the matter?"

"O, nothing!" said her Ladyship. "But something must be the matter-I never before saw the radiance of those brilliant eyes so dim," said the other.

"Well, then," said Lady Mary, "if you must know, Sir William has been plaguing me again about Colonel B- and wants me to forbid his attending me in public."

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"My dearest Lady Mary," exclaimed the satellite, "I never heard anything so intolerable; but I hope you did not make any concessions.'

"No, indeed," replied Lady Mary;

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The distance to Mrs Mordant's house was not great, and I was immediately taken into the drawingroom, where a lady of a most engaging aspect was sitting, reading. As she continued to proceed with her book without taking any notice of me, I had leisure to observe her physiognomy. At first I thought her extremely handsome, but, on examination, I found that her chief attraction consisted in the expression of her illuminated countenance-an expression fraught with goodness and benignity. After some little time, a gentleman entered. There was something very prepossessing in his appearance, though his brow was evidently clouded by chagrin. Mrs Mordant perceived that something had vexed him, and, laying aside her book, said, in an affectionate manner,

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My dear Mr Mordant, I am a fraid something has occurred to distress you-May I not know what it is ?"

"I own," said he, "I have been greatly disturbed by a letter I have just received."

"I hope nothing very seriousPray let me know what it is-Perhaps it may not be so bad as you apprehend," said Mrs Mordant, with earnest solicitude.

"It is nothing, my love, that need distress you, and ought not, perhaps, to distress me. Still I cannot help

feeling excessively hurt. I had intended not to have mentioned it to any body-however, I will to you, and to you only. I have received an anonymous letter, telling me that that poor unhappy woman is now with her wretched seducer in the most abject poverty. For two years after her divorce, they subsisted on the money and jewels she took with her when she eloped from this house, and abandoned every"

Here his voice became so indistinct, I could not hear his next words; but, becoming more composed, he resumed," And I find that he has now been obliged to sell his commission, and is in momentary expectation of being put in prison for debt, whither she, having no other resource, must accompany him. I know it is weak, it is wrong to feel as I do; but, when I recollect how much she was the darling of a doating father, all her early self-indulgence, her helplessness, her delicacy, I cannot picture her reduced to be the inmate of a common prison, of a receptacle for the lowest vice and want, without feeling, great as have been her injuries to me, an agony I cannot suppress."

After a short silence on both sides, Mrs Mordant took the hand of her husband in both hers, and said,— "Let us consider what can, what ought, to be done."

"I know," said Mr Mordant, "what ought to be done. She ought to suffer the misery she has brought upon herself. She has poisoned her own cup-she ought to drink to the last drop the bitter dregs of it."

"And has she not," said the gentle advocate, "done that already ?”

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No," said the agitated husband, "I have had my share of it; her innocent, her injured child, she has her portion yet to come. How must she feel when she comes to know that her mother forsook her, forsook her for an abandoned profligate! The disgrace of such a mother will cling to her all her life. O Selina," he continued, "had I but seen you before I had consigned my affections and my honour to one so unworthy of the trust, how unclouded would then have been our lives, for not all the happiness I now enjoy with you can prevent my life from being embittered by cruel remembrance!"

"We should then," said the gentle

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