I am most confoundedly disturbed about it: for I begin to fear, that her intellects are irreparably hurt.

Who the devil could have expected such strange effects from a cause so common, and so slight?

But these high-souled and high-sensed girls, who had set up for shining lights and examples to the rest of the sex, are with such difficulty brought down to the common standard, that a wise man, who prefers his peace of mind to his glory in subduing one of that exalted class, would have nothing to say to them.

I declare to her, that it is my resolution to marry her, the moment her uncle Harlowe informs me, that he will grace the ceremony with his presence.

But she believes nothing I say; nor (whether in her senses, or not) bears me with patience in her sight.

I pity her with my soul; and I curse myself, when she in her wailing fits, and when I apprehend, that intellects, so charming, are for ever damped. But more I curse these women, who put me upon such an expedient!— Lord! Lord! what a hand have I made of it!—and all for what?

Last night, for the first time since Monday last, she got to her pen and ink: but she pursues her writing with such eagerness and hurry, as show too evidently her dis

composure.

I hope, however, that this employment will help to calm her spirits.

Just now Dorcas tells me, that what she writes she tears, and throws the paper in fragments under the table, either as not knowing what she does, or disliking it: then gets up, wrings her hands, weeps, and shifts her seat all round the room: then returns to her table, sits down, and writes again.

One odd letter, as I may call it, Dorcas has this moment given me from her-carry this, said she, to the vilest of Dorcas, a toad, brought it, without any further

men.

direction, to me. I sat down, intending (though 'tis pretty long) to give thee a copy of it: but, for my life, I cannot; 'tis so extravagant. And the original is too much an original to let it go out of my hands.

But some of the scraps and fragments, as either torn through, or flung aside, I will copy, for the novelty of the thing, and to show thee how her mind works now she is in this whimsical way. Yet I know I am still furnishing thee with new weapons against myself. But spare thy comments. My own reflections render them needless. Dorcas thinks her lady will ask for them: so wishes to have them to lay again under her table.

By the first thou'lt guess, that I have told her, that Miss Howe is very ill, and can't write; that she may account the better for not having received the letter designed for her.

PAPER I.

(Torn in two pieces.)

MY DEAREST MISS HOWE -O WHAT dreadful, dreadful things have I to tell you! But yet I cannot tell you neither. But say, are you really ill, as a vile, vile creature informs me you are?

But he never yet told me truth, and I hope has not in this: And yet, if it were not true, surely I should have heard from you before now!-But what have I to do, to upbraid -You may well be tired of me !-and if you are, I can forgive you; for I am tired of myself: and all my own relations were tired of me long before you were.

How good you have always been to me, mine own dear Anna Howe -But how I ramble!

I sat down to say a great deal-my heart was full-I did not know what to say first-and thought, and grief,

and confusion, and (O my poor head!) I cannot tell what -and thought, and grief, and confusion, came crowding so thick upon me; one would be first, another would be first, all would be first; so I can write nothing at all— Only that, whatever they have done to me, I cannot tell; but I am no longer what I was in any one thing.-In any one thing, did I say? Yes, but I am; for I am still, and I ever will be,

Your true

Plague on it! I can write no more of this eloquent nonsense myself, which rather shows a raised, than a quenched, imagination: But Dorcas shall transcribe the others in separate papers, as written by the whimsical charmer: And some time hence, when all is over, and I can better bear to read them, I may ask thee for a sight of them. Preserve them therefore; for we often look back with pleasure even upon the heaviest griefs, when the cause of them is removed.

PAPER II.

How art thou now humbled in the dust, thou proud Clarissa Harlowe! Thou that never steppedst out of thy father's house, but to be admired! Who were wont to turn thine eye, sparkling with healthful life, and selfassurance, to different objects at once, as thou passedst, as if (for so thy penetrating sister used to say) to plume thyself upon the expected applauses of all that beheld thee! Thou that usedst to go to rest satisfied with the adulations paid thee in the past day, and couldst put off everything but thy vanity!

PAPER III.

Thou pernicious caterpillar, that preyest upon the fair leaf of virgin fame, and poisonest those leaves which thou canst not devour!

Thou fell blight, thou eastern blast, thou over-spreading mildew, that destroyest the early promises of the shining year that mockest the laborious toil, and blastest the joyful hopes, of the painful husbandman !

Thou fretting moth, that corruptest the fairest gar

ment !

Thou eating canker-worm, that preyest upon the opening bud, and turnest the damask rose into livid yellow

ness!

If, as religion teaches us, God will judge us, in a great measure, by our benevolent or evil actions to one another, -O wretch! bethink thee, in time bethink thee, how great must be thy condemnation !

PAPER IV.

Lead me, where my own thoughts themselves may lose me,
Where I may doze out what I've left of life,

Forget myself, and that day's guilt!

Cruel remembrance!-how shall I appease thee?

Death only can be dreadful to the bad:

To innocence 'tis like a bugbear dress'd
To frighten children. Pull but off the mask,
And he'll appear a friend.

Then farewell, youth,

And all the joys that dwell

With youth and life!

And life itself, farewell!

For life can never be sincerely blest.
Heav'n punishes the bad, and proves the best.

Are, like waves, renew'd?

How am I pursu'd!
By swift misfortunes
Which on each other

I could a tale unfold—

Would harrow up thy soul!

In the letter she wrote me there are yet greater extravagances, and though I said it was too affecting to give thee a copy of it, yet, after I have let thee see the loose papers enclosed, I think I may throw in a transcript of that. The reading of it affected me ten times more than the severest reproaches of a regular mind could do.

TO MR. LOVELACE.

I NEVER intended to write another line to you. I would not see you, if I could help it.-O that I never had!

But tell me of a truth, is Miss Howe really and truly ill ?—very ill ?—And is not her illness poison ?—And don't you know who gave it her?

What you, or Mrs. Sinclair, or somebody (I cannot tell who) have done to my poor head, you best know: But I shall never be what I was. My head is gone. I