it afterwards appeared, it was impossible for him to live and to be happy. He remained, however, silent; not an expression ever fell from him which could lead to a discovery of his secret, not even to my brother or myself, in our greatest intimacy. He was a witness to Roget's being introduced into our family; marked the progress which he made in our friendship; observed the first dawning of affection in my sister's breast; watched the sentiments, which she and Roget mutually entertained for each other, growing up into attachment, affection, and the warmest passion; and still observed the most profound silence; and it was not till after the marriage had been resolved on, that any of us discovered the cause of that melancholy which had then long become apparent in him; nor should we, even then, have discovered it, but it would perhaps have passed with him in silence into that grave into which his misfortunes soon led him, but for the most accidental circumstance. One night my brother and myself supped with him, at the house of one of our friends. We stayed very late, and drank a good deal of wine; not enough, however, to produce a visible effect on any of us, but on poor Greenway. On him was produced an effect the most extraordinary : his spirits were not exhilarated, his reason was not clouded, or his articulation impeded; but the passions, which had long preyed upon his mind, heightened and inflamed, overcame at once the restraint which he had long imposed on them, and burst out in the most vehement expression. As we were walking home, he talked in vague terms of his wretchedness, till, unable to proceed, he sunk down on the steps of a door; and there, in a transport of passion, and in words and with an accent that penetrated to the soul, expressed the cause and extent of his misery; and in a spirit of prophecy, which was but too truly fulfilled, exclaimed, that he should never, never again know what it was to be happy. Immediately after the intended marriage of my sister was made public, he entered into the Oxfordshire militia, which was then encamped, in the hope that the bustle and novelty of a military life might efface those recollec tions which were incompatible with his peace of mind. But all was in vain. A deep melancholy settled and preyed upon his mind. Calamities the most dreadful, which in the course of a few years afterwards happened in his own family, increased this load of affliction. He soon afterwards set out upon a journey into France, in the hope that a change of place, and of objects, might relieve the anguish which he suffered; but it was to no purpose. Nothing could dissipate, for a single moment, the gloom which hung upon him. He had no sooner arrived in any town than he was impatient to leave it; and he hurried from place to place, more dejected every day, and more declining in his health, till, upon his arrival at Calais, on his return, he was too ill to proceed any farther. His companion in his travels* immediately wrote to me to apprize me of his situation; and with all possible expedition I set out to join him. I arrived; but too late for every thing but to witness his last agonies. He turned upon me his dying eyes, attempted to speak, but was unable, and shortly after expired. He had twice attempted to make his will, but found it impossible. In the delirium of the fever which consumed him, he often exclaimed, when disturbed by the noise of a hammering in the court-yard of the inn where he lay, that he heard they were preparing the rack for him. Unhappy man! the torments of his sensible and affectionate mind were more poignant even than those of the rack which he dreaded; and yet he, whose destiny it was thus exquisitely to suffer, had employed his whole life in serving his friends, in acts of kindness, humanity, and generosity, and had never done an injury to any one, or entertained a sentiment but of virtue and benevolence. His body was conveyed to Canterbury, and now lies buried in the church-yard of the cathedral. The melancholy fate of poor Greenway has led me much beyond the period to which I had brought down the account of myself. I wished to conclude his story before I proceeded with my own; and I have spared myself the frequent renewal of affliction, by crowding into a few * Mr. Byrne, the engraver. pages the miseries and the daily sufferings of several years. From the time of my sister's marriage, nay, from the time when it was first in contemplation, he knew no happiness; but he lingered through seven tedious years, before his sorrows laid him in the grave.' He lived long enough to see the instability of human happiness, and to witness the cruel misfortunes which overwhelmed those whom he had considered as completely blessed. But let me not anticipate other calamities; let me rather postpone them as long as possible, and forget awhile that they are fast approaching, to live over again and enjoy completely the too short period of pure and unmixed happiness, which followed my sister's marriage. I had always loved her with the tenderest affection. I had conceived for Roget the sincerest friendship, and their union increased and enlivened these sentiments. I passed most of my leisure hours with them, enjoying the small but well selected society which frequented their house, and enjoying still more their conversation when alone. I shall never forget the charms of our little frugal suppers, at which none but we three were present; but where we never were at a loss for topics that went to the hearts of all of us: where each spoke without the least reserve, nay, where each thought aloud, and was not only happy in himself, but happy from the happiness of those most dear to him. Our happiness, indeed, was such that it could hardly be increased; but, if not increased, we might, at least, reckon upon its duration; the sources of our enjoyment were in ourselves, not dependent upon the gifts of fortune, and not subject to the tyranny of opinion. We were young; myself, indeed, but just of age: and many years, in the enjoyment of the purest friendship and affection, seemed to be in store for us. Vain, however, were these expectations! our happiness was as transient as it was pure. 1 He died in the autumn of 1785: his remains were conveyed to Canterbury for interment on the 23rd of October in that year.-ED. NARRATIVE OF HIS EARLY LIFE, CONTINUED BY HIMSELF IN 1813. 1778-1789. Tanhurst, August 28, 1813. AFTER an interval of seventeen years I am about to resume the task of writing my life; a task undertaken in very different circumstances, and with very different views, from those with which I now resume it. When I began to set down the few events of my unimportant history, I was living in great privacy; I was unmarried, and it seemed in a very high degree probable that I should always remain so. My life was wasting away with few very lively enjoyments, and without the prospect that my existence could ever have much influence on the happiness of others; or that I should leave behind me any trace by which, twenty years after I was dead, it could be known that ever I had lived. But since that period, and within the last few years, I have been in situations that were more conspicuous; and though it has never been my good fortune to render any important service, either to my fellow-creatures or to my country, yet, for a short period of time, at least, some degree of public attention has been fixed on me. It is, however, with no view to the public that I am induced to preserve any memorial of my life; but wholly from private considerations. It is in my domestic life that the most important changes have taken place. For the last fifteen years my happiness has been the constant study of the most excellent of wives; a woman in whom a strong understanding, the noblest and most elevated sentiments, and the most courageous virtue, are united to the warmest affection, and to the utmost delicacy of mind and tenderness of heart; 1 A country house, in Surrey, on the side of Leith Hill.-ED. and all these intellectual perfections are graced and adorned by the most splendid beauty that human eyes ever beheld. She has borne to me seven children, who are living; and in all of whom I persuade myself that I discover the promise of their, one day, proving themselves not unworthy of such a mother. Some of them are of so tender an age that I can hardly hope that I shall live till their education is finished, and much less that I shall have the happiness to see them established in life; and of some it is not improbable that I may be taken from them while they are yet of such tender years that, as they advance in life, they may retain but little recollection of their father. To these, and even to my dear wife, if, as I devoutly wish, she should many years survive me, it may be a source of great satisfaction to turn over these pages; to learn or to recollect what I was, what I have done, with whom I have lived, and to whom I have been known. Such is the information that these pages will afford, and they will, I fear, afford nothing more. Of instruction there is but little that they can supply: what to shun or what to pursue, is that of which a life, so little chequered with events as mine, can hardly present any very striking lessons. I have been in no trying situations; the force of my character has never been called forth; I have fallen into no very egregious faults, and I have had the good fortune to escape those situations which generally lead to them; but, from the pious affection which may have been instilled into my children's minds, they may set a considerable value, and take a lively interest in facts which, to the rest of mankind, must appear altogether insipid and indifferent. It is, therefore, to enjoy conversation with my children, at a time when I shall be incapable of conversing with any one; and to live with them, as it were, long after I shall have descended into the grave, that I proceed with this narrative of my life. It is surrounded by these children in their happy infant state; cheered with the little sallies of their wit; exhilarated with their spirits; become youthful, as it were, by their youth; and transported at sometimes discovering in them the dawnings of their mother's vir |