wn stairs. We were
crammed into the carriage, like recruits for the Bastille, and not
having soul enough to give orders to the coachman, he presumed Paris our
destination, and drove off. After a considerable interval, silence was
broke, with a '_Je suis vraiment afflige du depart de ces bons
gens._' This was a signal for mutual confession of distress. We began
immediately to talk of Mr. and Mrs. Cosway, of their goodness, their
talents, their amiability; and though we spoke of nothing else, we
seemed hardly to have entered into the matter, when the coachman
announced the rue St. Denis, and that we were opposite Mr.
Danquerville's. He insisted on descending there, and traversing a short
passage to his lodgings. I was carried home. Seated by my fire-side,
solitary and sad, the following dialogue took place between my Head and
my Heart.

Head. Well, friend, you seem to be in a pretty trim.

Heart. I am indeed the most wretched of all earthly beings. Overwhelmed
with grief, every fibre of my frame distended beyond its natural powers
to bear, I would willingly meet whatever catastrophe should leave me no
more to feel, or to fear.

Head. These are the eternal consequences of your warmth and
precipitation. This is one of the scrapes into which you are ever
leading us. You confess your follies, indeed; but still you hug and
cherish them; and no reformation can be hoped, where there is no
repentance.

Heart. Oh, my friend! this is no moment to upbraid my foibles. I am rent
into fragments by the force of my grief! If you have any balm, pour it
into my wounds; if none, do not harrow them by new torments. Spare me
in this awful moment! At any other, I will attend with patience to your
admonitions.

Head. On the contrary, I never found that the moment of triumph, with
you, was the moment of attention to my admonitions. While suffering
under your follies, you may perhaps be made sensible of them; but, the
paroxysm over, you fancy it can never return. Harsh, therefore, as the
medicine may be, it is my office to administer it. You will be pleased
to remember, that when our friend Trumbull used to be telling us of the
merits and talents of these good people, I never ceased whispering to
you that we had no occasion for new acquaintances; that the greater
their merit and talents, the more dangerous their friendship to our
tranquillity, because the regret at parting would be greater.

Heart. Accordingly, Sir, this acquaintance was