it had been by his persuasions, her mother had been led to leave London sooner than she had intended.
So precipitately had they made their resolve, that when Sir Howard and Mr. Melliphant were informed of it, the latter felt as if a frightful gulph was opening to entomb his hopes for ever! Driven to the last extremity, where was then his stoicism? In all the real bitterness of woe, he sat like one stupified. At length, having brought himself to decide upon some plan or other, he seized his pen, knowing that now no further opportunity would ever be allowed him for meeting Rosilia alone, his only alternative was to endeavour to express on paper, the violent and contending feelings by which his heart was torn, in language which, if hers was not composed of steel, must effectually melt it. "Pity," thought he, "is nearly allied to love! 'Tis now my sole resource; nothing else is left me but to work upon the soft compassion, the sympathy, the oververflowing sensibility of her nature."
Scarcely had he finished his letter, than it was destroyed; another was written, which shared the same fate. He threw himself back into his chair in despair, ruminating upon his situation. "How poor is language," thought he, "to convey what I would utter." He made a third attempt,—an appeal, strong and energetic, which, though it did not please him, he would nevertheless venture to send;—but how? He thought of an expedient, having no other on which to determine; he sought Sir Howard, who
