s, said he was quite
certain that any attempt at reconciliation would be useless. He
therefore proposed two plans, and I might adopt whichever was the most
likely to divert my mind from my heavy affliction. The first was, to
ask his friends at the Admiralty to give me the command of a sloop of
war; the second, that I should go upon the Continent, and, having passed
a year there, return to England, when there was no knowing what change
of sentiment time and absence might not produce in my favour. "For,"
said he, "there is one very remarkable difference in the heart of a man
and of a woman. In the first, absence is very often a cure for love; in
the other, it more frequently cements and consolidates it. In your
absence, Emily will dwell on the bright parts of your character, and
forget its blemishes. The experiment is worth making, and it is the
only way which offers a chance of success."

I agreed to this. "But," said I, "as the war with France is now over,
and that with America will be terminated no doubt very shortly, I have
no wish to put you to the expense, or myself to the trouble, of fitting
out a sloop of war in time of peace, to be a pleasure-yacht for great
lords and ladies, and myself to be neither more nor less than a _maitre
d'hotel_: and, after having spent your money and mine, and exhausted all
my civilities, to receive no thanks, and hear that I am esteemed at
Almack's only `a tolerable sea-brute enough.' A ship, therefore,"
continued I, "I will not have; and as I think the Continent holds out
some novelty at least, I will, with your consent, set off."

This point being settled, I told Clara of it. The poor girl's grief was
immoderate. "My dearest brother, I shall lose you, and be left alone in
the world. Your impetuous and unruly heart is not in a state to be
trusted among the gay and frivolous French. You will be at sea without
your compass--you have thrown religion overboard--and what is to guide
you in the hour of trial?"

"Fear not, dear Clara," said I; "my own energies will always extricate
me from the dangers you apprehend."

"Alas! it is these very energies which I dread," said Clara; "but I
trust that all will be for the best. Accept," said she, "of this little
book from poor broken-hearted Clara; and, if you love her, look at it
sometimes."

I took the book, and, embracing her affectionately, assured her that for
her sake I would read it.

When I had completed my arrangements