vides the forest. This forest presents on one side the prospect of a village. The small houses which compose this village are scattered in the wood, where Turkish, Chinese, Italian, and Eng. lish coffee-rooms, ball-rooms, and billiard-tables, are erected. The inhabitants of this spot are not shepherds, but principally cooks, confectioners, musiciens, dancers, and the like.

In a particular part of this wood, which has the privilege of a fresh and agreeable shade, with many green turfs, it is usual for persons of every description and rank in society to be continually walking. Here princes, citizens, servants, monks, and soldiers, are all blended without distinction.

The cottages are so many temples dedicated to sensual delight, where continual victims are offered at the shrine of intemperance. The woods and meadows are filled with the same preparations. Tables are spread in all parts, and waiters continually passing and repassing The company take ices and creamed coffee, besides the repast which they make before and after the

promenade.

The echoes perpetually repeat around the groves the sound of the horns, Autes, and other instruments, which charm the ear and give an edge to the appetite. In a word, this wood seems to concentrate all the magic powers of pleasure within itself.

During the conviviality of eating, drinking, walking, and playing, crowds of carriages (for they are numerous at Vienna) are continually entering this scene of mirth and festivity. All these carriages cross the forest, which extends to the pavillion called the Lusthaus, and is the end of the ride. At the Prater superb fire-works are exhibited, exercises are made, and every species of public performance is displayed, which the ingenuity of individuals has invented. But nothing exceeds the pleasure of dining on a clear day under a tree, and listening to the enchanting music on one side, whilst from another quarter a number of tame stags and fallow deer, enticed by the appearance of food, approach us, and eat bread from our hands. A luxury of enjoyment which fy can experience elsewhere.

THE English are a wise and respectable nation. The immense weight which they have always held in the scale of Europe, their skill in politics, in war, and their sublime discoveries in the sciences, would be sufficient to insure them the most exalted praise, even, if added to this, they did not possess the merit of having been the first modern nation endowed with the two most necessary requisites of man, wisdom and good laws. The English have not taken an unfair advantage of their superiority, which they might have done with great ease; but their good sense taught them not to wish to arrive immediately at that perfection which can only be the fruit of long tried experience. It was their opinion that reason, virtue, and particularly happiness, were only to be acquired by a just medium; and to preserve this liberty, the first gift which man can enjoy, they have confounded this exalted word, and mixed with it the sublime ideas of obedience to the law, respect for the authorities established by the law, and a sacred awe of transgressing against it. On this foundation was quickly erected the unshaken support of liberty, that creative principle of happiness, public spirit.It is by this alone that the inhabitants of two small islands have often seen themselves the umpires, or the terror of sovereigns, the mediators of

Europe; that their fleet, the unrivalled mistress of the ocean, has sailed, and borne terror to the two Indias and sought their treasures; and that their own happy country, safe from the invasion of strangers, and internal divisions, enjoys the blessings of peace, cultivates the fine arts, pos sesses riches gathered in every quarter of the globe, and witness the arrival in her harbours of the productions of the whole universe.

It is undoubtedly upon this that they rest the good opinion they entertain of themselves, that estimation in which they hold their own nation as superior to all others. They are conscious of their own value, and boldly proclaim it. They disdain to acknowledge the merit and qualities which grow in every land; this gives their very virtues an appearance of pride which diminishes their lustre without taking aught from their real worth. In a word, they care but little for the approbation of others, and the only means of pleasing them is to praise their wisdom.

I have, however, known an Englishman who, in order to avoid these defects, if they may be so termed, fell into the opposite error; he not only laid a great stress upon the opinions of mankind in general, but the wish of pleasing proved the ruling passion of his soul. He was not satisfied with acting right, but wanted to meet with

the approbation of the world.

His constant rule of conduct was to behave in a manner that none of his actions could be censured; he moreover required that it should be applauded; he longed and pretended to please every body, and this weakness placed his happiness or misery in the power of many.

This young man, the last descendant of a noble and ancient family, inherited but a very small fortune; but nature had amply rewarded him for the scantiness of his purse, by endowing him with every mental and personal advantage. Having lost both his parents in his infancy, the care of his education had devolved on a rich relation, who had thought it was his duty to assist the helplessness of his orphan state, and in due time Sir Edward Seymour completed his studies with great credit, and was presented by his be nefactor with a commission in a regiment of cavalry.

Being well aware of his dependant state on his entrance into the world, and fully convinced that if he committed follies, he had no righ: to ex pect that they should be overlooked, or even pardoned by his benefactor, Sir Edward determined to avoid committing any, and hitherto he had kept his word. Notwithstanding his youth, and the dangerous examples which surrounded him, never had he in the smallest degree swerved from his duty; but solely employed in the studies necessary to become an experienced officer, he soon obtained a company with no other protection than his own good conduct, courage, and abilities. Far from being vain of the praises which even his rivals could not refuse him, he would say to them smilingly, "If I am prudent, I only owe it to my inability, if I had committed follies, of paying for them."

Sir Edward's only fault, the weakness I have mentioned, made him attach so much importance to the opinion of others; a weakness doub less excusable, since it became the source of many virtues. But whether through modesty or pride, which very often resemble each other, the approbation of his conscience did not alone satisfy him. Calumny, or the slightest suspicion respecting his honour, or his morals, would have made him consider himself the most unhappy of men; and as, notwithstanding the envy which a character like his must naturally excite, no one had dared to insinuate a word against his reputation, and as he received the respect so justly his due, Sir Edward had at last persuaded himself that virtue insured fame, and that though the public are often severe, they nevertheless are just; that those whom they esteem are always possessed of merit, and those whom they condemn are worthy of being despised.

During the months Sir Edward Seymour passed in London, he mixed but little in the noisy pleasures of the metropolis; he chiefly resided at the house of Mr. Clements, his benefactor, who treated him in every respect as if he had been his own son. He had a few chosen friends whom he visited, amongst whom was a lady of the name of Harley, who at the age of one-and-twenty had been two years a widow. Our hero's acquaintance with this lady had commenced at the house of a relation, where she spent the summer months; and as Sir Edward's regiment was at that period quartered in its vicinity, he had been a frequent visiter there. To know the lovely Mrs. Harley, and not to admire her, was next to an impossibility; and our hero, who possessed all that warm enthusiasm towards those who combine beauty with every feminine virtue, which worthy minds generally feel, thought the fair widow the most perfect of God's creatures. She, on her side, was not blind to the amiable qualities of Sir Edward. She thought she had discovered in him the virtues which she should have wished her partner through life to possess ; the husband she had lost had been chosen by her parents; and though at the age of sixteen they had forced her to bestow her hand on General Harley, a gentleman just returned from the East Indies, with immense riches, and nearly three times her age, her heart never had any share in this union. Though the fair Eliza had exerted every power to oblige the husband her parents had given her, yet his naturally bad temper, soured by illness, was not calculated to make a lovely young woman happy; but her mild and patient disposition, added to a sense of duty, prompted her to pay him every attention, till, after having been his nurse for three years, death called him away, and left our heroine, at the age of nineteen, once more free, and in the possession of a handsome fortune. Her widowhood was spent partly with her relations, and partly at her house in Upper Grosvenor-street, where one or the other of her female friends generally resided with her.

Sir Edward Seymour, though he could not resist the temptation of visiting at the house of Mrs. Harley, sought carefully to hide his sentiments; he adored the fair widow, and he had every reason to imagine that he had gained an interest in her heart. But she possessed three thousand a year; and what would have become of Sir Edward if the world were to accuse him of seeking to make his fortune by marriage.

He was not, however, totally bereft of hope, Mrs. Harley was engaged in a law-suit, on which depended a considerable part of her fortune.Sir Edward awaited the issue of it, to bid her an eternal adieu if she gained it; or if the contrary

often visited his sister-in-law, who fully appre ciating his excellent qualities, often asked his advice, never contradicted him, and was, in his opinion, the most sensible woman in England.

Mrs. Harley spoke to him of her sentiments for Sir Edward, and of the offer she had received of his hand. Mr. Harley warmly approved her choice. "I have," said he, "for a long time esteemed Sir Edward; he is a man of honour, and possesses no small portion of merit; though his character is deficient in firmness, he is too desirous of pleasing, and has not, for what the world calls polished manners, that dignified contempt, that profound indifference, which distin

This Mr. Harley was rather a singular man; his disposition was completely the opposite to Sir Edward's. As much did this young man respect and fear the opinion of others, as the old gentleman despised every opinion which did not agree with his own. What he had once thought, or advanced, was considered by him as a sacred law, which he could not comprehend why every one did not follow. He acknowledged, without the least hesitation, that in the whole course of his life he had never been mistaken, and that he had never changed his opinion on any subject; for sixty years he had always been in the right.Setting this aside, he was a man of strict honour and irreproachable conduct, a good father, and a sincere friend; but an eternal arguer. His method of proving what he advanced, was to continue to speak, and never to cease; and as he had excellent lungs, and in the end those whom he wished to persuade, tired with listening to him, were glad to let him have his own way to get rid of him. Mr. Harley had no doubt but that he had convinced them; and was, in his own opinion, the most able orator in Europe. He had been married in his youth, and was a very affectionate husband; but he would insist upon teaching his wife elocution; and at last, by listening to her husband, poor Mrs. Harley died completely deprived of hearing. She left him an only son, who was now pursuing his studies at Oxford, where it was his father's intention that he should remain until he had attained his thirty-first year. While waiting for this period, he continued to argue with unabated vigour; he

all come in due time, with a little of my instruction. He has good principles, which form the main point; and if he listen to my advice, I will answer for his soon being totally careless of the opinion of the world.”

The fair widow smiled, and the marriage day was fixed. Sir Edward, at the height of his wishes, wrote immediately to his cousin Clements, who had been for some time at his country seat, about sixty miles from town. A few hours after he had dispatched his letter, a messenger arrived, who brought the unexpected news of Mr. Clements' sudden death, caused by a fit of apoplexy, which had carried him off in two days. As he was a bachelor, all his relatives had immediately repaired to his mansion, anxious to learn who was heir to his immense property.The will had been read, and the rapacious crew nearly expired with grief on discovering that Mr. Clements had left all his possessions to his cousin, Sir Edward Seymour.

With the will was found a letter very carefully sealed, and addressed to our hero. The man of business, who had the care of the deceased's affairs, immediately sent this letter to Sir Edward, with a copy of the will. All the relations had withdrawn themselves, with their spirits much more depressed than when they arrived; and Mr. Clements' funeral was only attended by his domestics.

Sir Edward, as much afflicted as astonished, shed sincere tears to the memory of his benefactor. He loved him with a truly filial affection, he was indebted to him for all he possessed; and the opulence which he was about to enjoy, could not console him for his loss. Alarmed at the mystery which the letter so cautiously sealed seemed to inclose, he feared to peruse it; and at length determined only to open it in the presence of his beloved Eliza, and his friend Mr. Harley. With this intention he repaired to Grosvenorstreet, and fortunately found them together; he immediately informed them of what had hap

"I shall not recall to your remembrance all that I have done for you since your infancy; your good heart has too often acknowledged it. You have honoured me, my friend, in giving me the right of looking upon you as my son; and it is I who should return you thanks for having for so many years enjoyed the society of so virtuous a youth...

"I bequeath to you all my fortune; ever since I have known you, it is for you alone that I have ever destined it. It amounts to ten thousand a year; and I trust that I have taken every necessary precaution that no one should dispute your title to it. As the whole of it has been acquired by my own industry, I think I may be allowed to dispose of it without consulting any one. If your extreme delicacy should prompt you to refuse my gift, and give up to my relations, or to any one whatever, I now solemnly declare, that you could not in any way act more opposite to my wishes, or more highly offend the memory of your departed friend.

"My will gives you all my possessions, without any conditions; and this letter is not intended to dictate to you, it will only contain a request.

"I have a daughter, aged eighteen, whom I have caused to be educated with the greatest care. She is amiable, handsome, and in every respect deserving of my tenderness, and cannot fail making an excellent wife. Her mother, whom I long loved, has made me experience what I before thought impossible, namely, a violent affection for an object whom I could not esteem. God preserve you, my dear Edward, from so fatal a passion! It often torments us, and always makes us despicable even in our own eyes. Invincible obstacles, partly arising from the violence of this woman's temper, have deterred me from making her my wife. She is called Mrs. Jones, and her daughter, Frances, passes for her niece, and resides with her at a smal! estate called the Priory, the only gift of mine || which Mrs. Jones has not dissipated.

"I entreat you as my friend, as my adopted son, to repair the injury I have committed towards my daughter, and to place her in a station which I could not bestow on her; and acquit me of the debt I owe her by raising her to the rank of your wife. I again repeat to you, my dear Edward, that this request is not a command; and especially wish you to understand, that it is not a condition, and bears no relation with what I have bequeathed to you. This hope, which I

carry with me to the tomb, will soften my latter moments, and augment, if possible, the tenderness which your best friend and cousin has ever borne towards you.

"GEORGE CLEMENTS."

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After the perusal of this letter, our hero, thunderstruck and motionless, fixed his mournful eyes on Mis. Harley; who, without uttering a word, bent her looks to the ground. Her brother-inlaw attentively watched Sir Edward's countenance, and all three observed a profound silence, which was first broken by Mr. Harley. "What will be your determination?" said he: "I fear you hesitate." "No," replied our hero, "I am vexed, but I dot not hesitate, Whatever were the rights of my benefactor before he made me his heir, he did not possess that of disposing of my heart, breaking my vows, or making me eternally miserable. No person in existence can contest this truth. Well, I will place myself precisely in the same situation as before his death. I will give up the succession, return to my native poverty, my native liberty, and I shall think myself but too well repaid for this trifling sacrifice in becoming the husband of the only woman in the world I could sincerely love."

A look from Mrs Harley was her only reply; but the old gentleman knitting his brows exclaimed, "What is it you say? you have not surely paid attention to the letter you have just read? It forbids you in plain terms to reject this inheritance; and explains to you the motives of this prohibition. Would you thus dare to despise the manifest intention of your benefactor? He depended on your wedding his daughter, he has made you his heir, not on that condition, for I can distinguish in this case, that you are perfectly free to accept or reject; but he commenced by giving you his fortune, and forbidding your rejection of it; he then asks a favour of you, which honour, and gratitude, compel you to grant, the more readily as no contraint is pot upon you; he then wished to dispense with the obligation imposed by a law, to lay upon you a much more powerful one, much stronger than all the laws in the world, that of your conscience."

"But my conscience is engaged," mildly rejoined Sir Edward, " and nothing can-."

"Do not interrupt me, Sir," continued Mr. Harley, raising his voice," but answer me this question. If your benefactor still lived, and you declared to him that you would not marry his daughter, it is at least uncertain whether Mr. Clements would not have changed his intention, and have given his fortune to one who would have fulfilled his desires. Now that he is dead, how can he change it? You then have no longer