PROFESSION IS NOT

PRINCIPLE,

&c.

An Apartment in Howard's House.

HOWARD and CONWAY.

How. Now, my dear Conway, that we are at last alone, allow me to state the cause of this kind visit of yours. It is this. You have, during the last eighteen months, heard so many strange reports concerning me, that you have at last been unable to resist believing in the truth of some of them. You have heard that the

illness I had, just after your leaving England, and then the death of my poor boy, have together had the effect of im

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pairing my intellects; and painful as it was to separate yourself from Mrs Conway in her present delicate state of health, and inconvenient as it was in every way to leave your family abroad without you, yet you could not rest satisfied till you had yourself seen whether it was so; and you have travelled from Lausanne to England, for no other purpose. You are silent, Conway. Tell me, then, have you perceived any change in me? We have now spent two days together in London, and constantly in society, and you have seen me most part of this day in the midst of my family. Be perfectly frank with me; were any thing so sad as a real change of intellect to happen to me, whom in the world, Conway, should I so soon look to as yourself, for sympathy and support?

Con. My dearest Howard, believe me, upon my honour, I see no change in you whatever; unless (smiling) perhaps a few more grey hairs.

How.

Yes, Conway, many more. Yours, too, my friend, have increased since we last met; and we both smile on observing this, such is the power of has bitual affectation.

How. Yes, Conway, in plain words, affectation. We both We both suppose ourselves superior to any thing so contemptible; but is a smile the true expression of the feeling we experience, on observing in our dearest friends the approach of des cay, and age, and death? Crobno.

Con. There speaks the unchanged character of my friend's mind! The same nicety of truth, the same ascription of deep feeling to slight and transient emotions. I will not allow, however, that my smile was affected, though my feelings might have a mixture of sadness at the moment I smiled.

...How. Well, I am glad you consider my mind still the same. You would find it difficult, however, to prove that your

smile was free of affectation,

but we Tell me,

have not time to define smiles. dear Conway, what have you heard of me? I shall regard it as a proof of your conviction of my sanity, the more unreservedly you tell me every thing.

Con. I shall tell you all I recollect, my dear Howard, without the slightest reservation.

How. I intreat you may.

Con. You know, my friend, I was saved the misery of hearing of your illness, till I heard, also, that you were recovering. At that time, you know, poor Maria was considered in a very precarious state of health. I shall not recall those days of anxiety and suffering. The first person I saw from England, after your illness, was Harley, your neighbour in Suffolk. When I inquired for you, he seemed so embarrassed, and unwilling to speak of you, that I was quite alarmed. He assured me, that your physi cians had informed him your complaints

were quite removed, and that they had not the slightest doubt your health would soon be perfectly restored. Still, however, his frank kind nature seemed always on the alarm, whenever you were mentioned; and, at last, after many importunities on my part, he confessed to me that you were considered, by those most intimate with you, to be greatly changed, that the approach of death had been dreadfully alarming to you,— and that, in short, it had actually terri fied you into fanaticism.

How.

Terrified me into fanaticism! Did Harley say so of me; and could he believe it?

Con. He said, that for a time he could not. He, however, had it not in his power himself to see you; and, at last, he found it impossible to disbelieve what was told him by some of your most intimate friends, who had seen and conversed with you, and over whom you still possessed such influence, that they