Where has my Julia learnt this inflexibility of mind? or what virtue so rigid as to say, she is not free to enter into other engagements? Are your affections to lie for ever buried in the grave of your unfortunate husband? Heaven, who has given us renewable affections, will not condemn us for making a transfer of them, when the continuance of that affection can be of no farther advantage to the object. But your case is different; you have attached yourself to a visionary idea! the man, whose memory you cherish, perhaps, thinks no longer of you; or would he not have sought you out before this? Are you to pass your life in mourning his absence, and not endeavour to do justice to the fidelity of one of the most amiable of men? Surely, my Julia, these sacrifices are not required of you! You condemn my father for being so interested in the fate of his friend Woodley!--he only requests you to see him. Why not see him as an acquaintance? You cannot form the idea of my father's wishing to constrain you to accept him! All he thinks of at present is, that you would not suffer prejudices to blind your reason. Woodley seeks not to subdue you by perseverance; only give him leave to try to please you; only allow him to pay you a visit. Surely, if you are as fixed as fate, you cannot apprehend the bare sight of him will overturn your resolves! You fear more danger than there really is. Still we say--_see him_. My dearest Julia did not use to be inexorable! My father allows he has now no power over you, even if he could form the idea of using it. What then have you to dread? Surely you have a negative voice! I am called upon--but will end with the strain I began. See him, and then refuse him your esteem, nay more, your tender affection, if you can. Adieu! Your's most sincerely, LOUISA GRENVILLE. LETTER LVII. TO Miss GRENVILLE. Oh, my Louisa! how is the style of your letters altered! Is this change (not improvement) owing to your attachment to Mr. Spencer? Can _love_ have wrought this difference? If it has, may it be a stranger to my bosom!--for it has ceased to make my Louisa amiable!--she, who was once all tenderness--all softness! who fondly soothed my distresses, _and felt for weakness which she never knew_-- "It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly; Our _sex_, as well as I, may chide you for it, Though I alone do feel the injury--"