“FOR this reason the all-wise Judge hath ordered the same passions still to inflame those ghosts, with which they were possessed on earth—Observe yon despicable crew!—behold the sin of Avrice!—those sordid ghosts are the souls of Misers—Lo! they eye their delightful bags with horrid pleasure; and with a ghastly smile, brood over their imaginary riches. Unable to carry their wealth about with them, they are confined to one spot, and in one position. This infernal joy is the source of their tortures, for behold them start at every sound, and tremble at the flitting of a shade. Thus are they doomed to be their own tormentors—to pore over their gold with immortal fear, apprehension, and jealousy and to guard their ideal wealth with tears of care, and the eyes of eternal watchfulness. “BEHOLD here,” continued my guide, “the miserable division of Suicides!” “Unhappy they!” added I, “who, repining at the ills of life, raised the sacrilegious steel against their own bosoms! How vain the reiterated wish to again animate the breathless clay—to breath the vital air—and to behold the cheering luminary of Heaven!”—“Upbraid me not—O my father!” cried a voice—I looked up, and thought my son appeared among them—immediately turning from so shocking a spectacle, I suddenly beheld my once loved _Maria_—“O delight of my youth! do I behold thee once more!—Let me hide my sorrows in thy friendly bosom.” I advanced towards her—but she flew from me with scorn and indignation—“O speak! _Maria!_ speak to me!” She pointed with her finger to a group of spirits, and was out of sight in a moment. “LET me,” said my conductor, “prepare you for a more dreadful sight.” The increasing melancholy, and affecting gloom of the situation, forboded something terrifying to my soul—I looked toward the place where _Maria_ had pointed, and saw a number of souls remote from any division of the unhappy. In their countenances were depicted more anguish, sorrow and despair—I turned my head immediately from this dreadful sight, without distinguishing the nature of their torments. Quivering with horrour, I inquired who they were—“These,” answered my guide, with a sigh, “are the miserable race of SEDUCERS.—Repentance and shame drive them far from the rest of the accursed. Even the damned look on them with horrour, and thank fate their crimes are not of so deep a die.” HE had hardly finished, when a demon took hold of me and furiously hurried me in the midst of this unhappy group—I was so terrified that it immediately aroused me from my sleep.— EVEN now, while I write to you, my good friend, my hand trembles with fear at the painful remembrance—Yet ——’Twas but a dream, but then So terrible, it shakes my very soul.— Farewel! LETTER L. _Harriot_ to _Harrington_. _Boston._