she appeared again in the parlour, she threw herself on the sofa, for the apparent purpose of playing with a favourite little girl upon it, but with the real object of obtaining, if possible, some mitigation of suffering.

Last Midsummer twelvemonth we made an excursion into Lincolnshire. At the solicitation of our friends we consented to leave our dear daughter behind us for a few weeks. Various parties of pleasure were formed on her account; and among them, it was proposed to pay a visit to Crowland Abbey, at the distance of about fifteen miles. A large party was originally formed for this purpose, though various circumstances ultimately prevented several from joining it, and much preparation was made for the occasion. She was highly delighted with the plan, and wrote us a most humourous account of the intended procession. The day was fixed, and every thing was arranged; but in the mean time, she was seized with the complaint to which that part of Lincolnshire is incident, and

on the appointed day she was exceedingly unwell. But the party had been formed entirely on her account, and she knew the disappointment would be great, if she were wanting on the occasion. She had therefore not only to shake off her disease, but to assume an air of health and vivacity, which should leave no suspicion that all was not well; and, as she afterwards told her mother, she forced herself from her bed, when continuing upon it was the only comfort she was capable of enjoying; mixed with her friends in the excursion, and was enabled, though at a most hazardous risk to herself, and a sad waste of strength and spirits, to get through the day, without the company being aware how dearly she paid for the good humour and hilarity which were kept up on the occasion.

She carried indeed the principle of surrendering her own comforts to those of others so far, that we at length ascertained, when she was more than usually vivacious, she was labouring under some acute pain or uneasiness; for her efforts to conceal it

became excessive, and somewhat unnatural. I have learned that when she had been lying on the sofa under any indisposition, the moment she heard my foot proceeding across the hall, she would start up, assume an air of the greatest cheerfulness, and meet me, as she did at all times, with a smile of affection.

Though we have lately, alas! had occasion to know that disease had, for a considerable time, been making sad inroads upon her constitution, we could not ascertain this, at any given point of time. We never saw her otherwise than cheerful; and scarcely ever (I had almost said never, for I really do not recollect an instance of it) heard her heave a sigh. It was however too perceptible to us, by her loss of appetite and substance, that she could not be well; and we extorted from her that she had pains in her chest, in her side, and at the lower part of the spine; and from time to time we consulted our medical friends; but neither they nor we apprehended any thing of a serious nature, till the disease came on

with such violence, as to baffle all attempts to arrest its course, or subdue its virulence.

This part of my narrative is so strongly confirmed by a letter, which my dear wife. has received since the publication of the first edition of this little work, from the affectionate friend of my beloved daughter, with whom she was visiting atSouthampton, as I have just mentioned, and than whom, no one was better acquainted with the interior of my dear child, that I cannot forbear quoting a portion of that letter in this place, as I shall find occasion again to do in other parts of my memoir. Nor need I make an apology for inserting a few of her introductory remarks.

"There is scarcely an incident (writes Miss Tyler) related by Mr. Jerram of the character of my beloved friend, to which my memory does not supply some illustration; and if the recital of a few particulars be not too painful to you, I trust you will allow me the pleasure of indulging my feelings, in this respect. IfI mention nothing that a mother would not wish to hear re

specting a beloved daughter, I entreat you to believe that it does not arise from the fear of hurting a mother's feelings, but from the fact, that I cannot recollect one thing in Hannah Jerram, that, had I been her nearest relation, I could have wished to be otherwise. My heart bleeds at the thought of what were her sufferings when she was at Southampton; but of which we were, at the time, in a great degree ignorant: and the idea that I often persuaded her to walk, when it was probably very painful for her to do so, is now a subject of unavailing regret. I believe she had, for some time before it was seriously noticed by any of her friends, been the subject of much indisposition; and I have both at Chobham and Southampton remarked indications of delicate health; but when I spoke to her on the subject, she made so light of it, and rallied me on my grave looks, and assumed such an air of cheerful vivacity, with mirth sparkling in her eyes, that I could not help concluding my fears were groundless, and that I had mistaken the fact."