'I entered life, flushed with hope--I have proceeded but a few steps, and the parterre of roses, viewed in distant prospect, nearer seen, proves a brake of thorns. The few worthy persons I have known appear, to me, to be struggling with the same half suppressed emotions.--Whence is all this? Why is intellect and virtue so far from conferring happiness? Why is the active mind a prey to the incessant conflict between truth and error? Shall I look beyond the disorders which, _here_, appear to me so inexplicable?--shall I expect, shall I demand, from the inscrutable Being to whom I owe my existence, in future unconceived periods, the _end_ of which I believe myself capable, and which capacity, like a tormenting _ignis fatuus_, has hitherto served only to torture and betray? The animal rises up to satisfy the cravings of nature, and lies down to repose, undisturbed by care--has man superior powers, only to make him pre-eminently wretched?--wretched, it seems to me, in proportion as he rises? Assist me, in disentangling my bewildered ideas--write to me--reprove me--spare me not! 'EMMA.' To this letter I quickly received a kind and consolatory reply, though not unmingled with the reproof I called for. It afforded me but a temporary relief, and I once more sunk into inanity; my faculties rusted for want of exercise, my reason grew feeble, and my imagination morbid. CHAPTER XXVII A pacquet of letters, at length, arrived from London--Mrs Harley, with a look that seemed to search the soul, put one into my hands--The superscription bore the well known characters--yes, it was from Augustus, and addressed to Emma--I ran, with it, into my chamber, locked myself in, tore it almost asunder with a tremulous hand, perused its contents with avidity--scarce daring to respire--I reperused it again and again. 'I had trusted my confessions' (it said) 'to one who had made the human heart his study, who could not be affected by them improperly. It spoke of the illusions of the passions--of the false and flattering medium through which they presented objects to our view. He had answered my letter earlier, had it not involved him in too many thoughts to do it with ease. There was a great part of it to which he knew not how to reply--perhaps, on some subjects, it was not necessary to be explicit. And now, it may be, he had better be silent--he was dissatisfied with what he had written, but, were he to write again, he doubted if he should please himself any better.--He was highly flattered by the favourable opinion I entertained of him, it was a grateful proof, not of his merit, but of the warmth of my friendship, &c. &c.'