MUST I then forget the endearments of the lover, and call you by the name of brother? But does our friendship remain upon this foundation? Is this all that unites us? And has there subsisted nothing more tender—a sentiment more voluntary in our hearts? My feelings affirm that there was. At the hour of our first interview I felt the passion kindle in my breast. Insensible of my own weakness, I indulged its increasing violence and delighted in the flame that fired my reason and my senses. Do you remember our walks, our conversation, our diversions?—The remembrance of these things fill my mind with inconceivable torture—they seem to reproach me with unmerited criminality—I deprecate, I detest all these scenes of gaiety and frivolity—yet I have preserved my innocence and my virtue—what then have I to deprecate, what have I to detest? ALAS! how have we been forming schemes of happiness, and mocking our hearts with unsubstantial joys. Farewel! farewel! ye gilded scenes of imagination. How have we been deluded by visionary prospects, and idly dwelt upon that happiness which was never to arrive. How fleeting have been the days that were thus employed!—when anticipation threw open the gates of happiness, and we vainly contemplated the approach of bliss; and we beheld in reversion, the pleasures of life, and fondly promised ourselves, one day to participate in them; when we beheld in the magick mirrour of futurity, the lively group of loves that sport in the train of joy. We observed in transports of delight the dear delusion, and saw them, as it were, in bodily form pass in review before us; as the fabled hero views the region of præexistant spirits, and beholds a race of men yet to be born. SUCH was our hope, but even this fairy anticipation was not irrational. We were happy in idea, nor was the reality far behind. And why is the vision vanished? O! I sink, I die, when I reflect—when I find in my _Harrington_ a brother—I am penetrated with inexpressible grief—I experience uncommon sensations—I start with horrour at the idea of incest—of ruin—of perdition. HOW do I lament this fatal discovery, that includes the termination of a faithful love! I think of him whom I have resolved to be eternally constant—and ah! how often have I resolved it in my heart. I indulge, in idea, the recollection of his caresses—of his protestations, and of his truth and sincerity—I become lost in a wilderness, and still I travel on, and find myself no nearer an escape. I cherish the dear idea of a lover—I see the danger and do not wish to shun it, because to avoid it, is to forget it—And can I, at one stroke, erase from my mind the remembrances of all in which my heart used to delight? Ah! I have not the fortitude—I have not the virtue, to “forget myself to marble.” On the contrary, I strive no longer to remember our present connexion. I endeavour to forget—I curse the idea of a brother—my hand refuses to trace the word, and yet