was horribly fatigued by the discourse, but utterly unconvinced by the forcible arguments of her opponent. She even believed that the journey would prove a remedy for her asthmatic complaints; her desire of a matrimonial establishment was full as efficacious as the vinegar of Hannibal, and the Alps melted before it. At the dawn of day she had positively determined to follow the fortunes of the amiable Savoyard. The peace of mind, which this decision produced, afforded her a short slumber; but on waking, she was very far from being refreshed, and found that her unhappy frame had suffered so much from the agitation of her spirit, and the want of her usual sleep, that she was unable to appear at breakfast. This, however, was a circumstance too common to alarm the family; for though her cheerfulness never forsook her, yet her little portion of strength was frequently exhausted, and her breath often seemed on the very point of departing from her diminutive body. Towards noon, her sister entered her chamber, to make a kind enquiry concerning her health. It was a warm day in spring; yet Harriet, who was extremely chilly, had seated herself in a little low chair, by the side of a large fire. Her feet were strangely twisted together; and, leaning forward to rest her elbow on her knee, she supported her head on her right hand. To the affectionate questions of her sister she made no reply; but, starting from her reverie, walked with apparent difficulty across the chamber, and, saying, with a feeble and broken voice, “I can never pass the Alps,” sunk down on the side of her bed,--and with one deep sigh, but without any convulsive struggle, expired. Whether the much-injured and defective organs of her life were completely worn out by time, or whether the conflict of different affections, which had harassed her spirit through the night, really shortened her existence, the all-seeing author of it can alone determine. It is certain, however, that her death, and the peculiar circumstances attending it, produced among her relations the most poignant affliction. As she died without one convulsive motion, her sister could hardly believe her to be dead; and as this good lady had not attended to the levities of her son Edward, she could not comprehend the last words of Harriet, till her faithful servant gave a full and honest account of the nightly conversation which had passed between herself and her departed mistress. As her nephew, Edward, was my intimate friend, and I well knew his regard for this singular little being, I hastened to him the first moment that I heard she was no more. I found him under the strongest impression of recent grief, and in the midst of that self-accusation so natural to a generous spirit upon such an occasion. I endeavoured to comfort him, by observing, that death, which ought, perhaps, never to be considered as an evil, might surely be esteemed a blessing to a person, whose unfortunate infirmities