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person; and I trust to your generosity to acknowledge, that it is not without reason that I am displeased and deeply wounded.

"I am, Madam, &c. &c.

"MONTAGUE."

To Miss Argyle.

"Obstinate silence!-unaccountable perverseness! I did imagine, that my last would have extorted an answer from you! This is a firmness for which I never gave you credit; a firmness, permit me to observe, of the most unfeminine and unbecoming kind; a firmness, of which the friend of Miss Argyle is sorry to find her capable!-Alas, Isadora! how different are you from what you were wont to be!

"Where is that dignified mind, where that elevation of thought, that propriety of action, which was used to distinguish you?-Are you content to obscure all those graces, so attractive in you, by this assumed characteristic ? --Oh, Isadora! it cannot be natural in you to be unamiable, unyielding, and ungracious!it cannot be natural in you to rive the heart you have already wounded!

"But I go I leave England. You no longer acknowledge an interest in my remaining. Of what consequence is it to me where I roam, or what land receives me ?-Is there a heart more closely shut against me on those opposite shores, from which the ocean sepa

rates us, than that which heaves so slowly in thy breast, Isadora!-It cannot be ;-what matters it then, whether land or sea separates us, so that we are still divided!

"You will exclaim on the inutility of my laying my plans before you. I acknowledge that it is obtrusive; I own, that I ought not to claim a friendship you refuse to allow me; but the time of my remaining in the country which you inhabit, the uncertainty of my ever returning, must plead for me.

"Farewell, Isadora!

"MONTAGUE."

To Miss Argyle.

"You will not even bid me farewell !-you refuse to give me that one little pledge of amity, even now that I am on the very brink of quitting England for ever!-And are cruelty and hardness of heart the characteristics of Isadora? Is this perverse-this inflexible-the being on whom my soul doated?-From what a dream of perfection have you roused me!

"Adieu! too dear, too beloved! adieu! "MONTAGUE."

To Miss Argyle.

"Still silent, Isadora ?-still cold and haughty!--still relentless and unforgiving!--Ah, madam! how eager I am to complain,-how justifiable complaint appears to me!-I may sink into the tomb, Isadora, and who will weep for me?—I may repose in the sepulchre of my fathers, and what affectionate eye will seek out my urn, to weep over the ashes it enshrines?

"I may die, and all record of me will vanish!-I may live my little hour,--and for what purpose ?----to add the thirtieth earl to the line of Montague. Surely this is sufficient to gratify the ambition of man !---The thirtieth of a race, all the chiefs of which were princes in the land!---Enviable, proud distinction!---This is, indeed, to quaff honour and renown from the splendidly gilt cup, carved from the skull of the dead!

"What is this world, madam, that we are so anxious to prolong our existence in it ?---He who saw its wealth, its honours, its amusements, its follies, its learning, and its wisdom, affirms that it is all 'vanity of vanities!'--"There is no remembrance of the wise man more than of the fool for ever; seeing that which now is, in the days to come shall all be forgotten. And how dieth the wise man ?---as the fool!'

"But the talisman of Orosmades is yet to be found; potent enough to transform the whole earth into a blooming Eden !---Happy they,

who secure that talisman, though but for a moment!---Their's is the longest life, because they have not lived in vain---they have tasted happiness!

"And I too, Isadora, have dreamt that I might boast this rich possession; but you have undeceived me, and I thank you !---Yes: I flee from those scenes which might recall to me those blissful visions, that have so long delighted me. I caught a glimpse, like Colabah, into the gardens of Irèm, and then lost sight of it for ever.

"We are to separate, and our separation is to be eternal !---I am to feel, that

There is a pang that rends the inmost heart,
A hidden grief, that tears but ill express,

When they who long have loved, at length must part,
And tread alone life's wilderness !

When that fond converse, that was wont to bless
Each happier hour, is then for ever fled;

That voice, which shared each joy, or soothed distress,
In foreign lands, or numbered with the dead.
While memory pictures every bliss that's flown,
And fondly lingers o'er each pleasing scene;

Recalls to each the joys that each has known,

Then wakes the slumberer from his blissful dream!
Then paints those clay cold hours, that shake the brave,
The silent, dark unknown,-the future and the grave!

"Farewell, Isadora! farewell!-I leave England-perhaps for ever!-God bless you!-I forgive, from my very heart, the sufferings you have caused to me!

"Isadora! my weakness yet fondly lingers. I hesitate, I sicken, as the gloomy knell of expiring happiness vibrates on my ear! But you will have it so, and we part!

"Farewell!

"MONTAGUE."

"Leave me to myself-I am dying," said a celebrated character, in his last moments. "Alas!" sighed Lord Montague, as he closed the volume of the philosopher's life, "whenever my last hour shall arise, such an injunction will be unnecessary. No friendly arm supports me in the hour of sickness, and the bed of death is not likely to attract one.

'Tis strange," said he folding his arms, and pacing the apartment," 'tis strange, that while the blooming charities of life flourish in such proud luxuriance around me, that I alone, like the fabled Tantalus, should be unable to partake them that I should be barred from their enjoyment by a spell invincible, as that flaming barrier, that kept, of old, the paradise of Eden;-that I should be destined, like the offspring of its banished tenants, to wander through the world alone.

"Am I not formed, like others, to bask in the sunshine of affection? Do I not feel its privation as keenly? Does not my heart glow with enthusiastic ardour to find an object for its love? and shall its energies be lost from inactivity; become palsied by being dormant ; or perish by the freezing chill of disappointment? Shall the ardent fire of my affections, like a sepulchral lamp, illumine only the bosom that enshrines it? Shall it not rather, like the flame in the bosom of the enamoured Babylonian, burn with intenser fury from concealment ?

"When then shall it repose?

"Shall I, who feel, from sad experience,

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