youth, that some turn of Fortune's wheel might be in my favour. You know how amply, as well as unexpectedly, I am now provided for by our dear Frederic's death. How severely have I felt and mourned his loss! But he is happier than in any situation which our friendship for him could have found.

I could run any lengths in praising one so dear to me; but he was equally so to you, and you are fully acquainted with my sentiments on this head; besides, I have something more to the purpose at present to communicate to you.

All the satisfaction I ever expected from the acquisition of fortune was, to share it with my love. Nothing but that hope and prospect could have enabled me to sustain the death of my friend. In the bosom of my Julia I fondly hoped to experience those calm delights which his loss deprived me of for some time. Alas! that long-indulged hope is sunk in despair! Oh! my Spencer! she's lost, lost to me for ever! Yet what right had I to think she would not be seen, and, being seen, admired, loved, and courted? But, from the singularity of her father's disposition, who had vowed never to mix in the world;—a disappointment of the tenderest kind which her elder sister had met with, and the almost monastic seclusion from society in which she lived, joined to her extreme youth, being but seventeen the day I left you in London: all these circumstances, I say, concurred once to authorize my fond hopes,—and these hopes have nursed my despair. Oh! I knew not how much I loved her, till I saw her snatched from me for ever. A few months sooner, and I might have pleaded some merit with the lovely maid from my long and unremitted attachment. My passion was interwoven with my existence,—with that it grew, and with that only will expire.

"My dear-lov'd Julia! from my youth began
The tender flame, and ripen'd in the man;

My dear-lov'd Julia! to my latest age,
No other vows shall e'er my heart engage."

Full of the fond ideas which seemed a part of myself, I flew down to Woodley-vale, to reap the long-expected harvest of my hopes.—Good God! what was the fatal news I learnt on my arrival! Alas! she knew not of my love and constancy;—she had a few weeks before given her hand, and no doubt her heart, to Sir William Stanley, with whom an accident had brought her acquainted. I will not enlarge upon what were my feelings on this occasion.—Words would be too faint a vehicle to express the anguish of my soul. You, who know the tenderness of my disposition, must judge for me.

Yesterday I saw the dear angel, from the inn from whence I am writing; she and her happy husband stopped here for fresh horses. I had a full view of her beauteous face. Ah! how much has two years improved each charm in her lovely person! lovely and charming, but not for me. I kept myself concealed from her—I could hardly support the sight of her at a distance; my emotions were more violent than you can conceive. Her dress became her the best in the world; a riding habit of stone-coloured cloth, lined with rose-colour, and frogs of the same—the collar of her shirt was open at the neck, and discovered her lovely ivory throat. Her hair was in a little disorder, which, with her hat, served to contribute to, and heighten, the almost irresistible charms of her features. There was a pensiveness in her manner, which rendered her figure more interesting and touching than usual. I thought I discovered the traces of a tear on her cheek. She had just parted with her father and sister; and, had she shewn less concern, I should not have been so satisfied with her. I gazed till my eye-balls ached; but, when the chaise drove from the door—oh! what then became of me! "She's gone! she's gone!" I exclaimed aloud, wringing my hands, "and never knew how much I loved her!" I was almost in a state of madness for some hours—at last, my storm of grief and despair a little subsided, and I, by degrees, became calm and more resigned to my ill fate. I took the resolution, which I shall put in execution as soon as possible, to leave England. I will retire to the remaining part of my Frederic's family—and, in their friendship, seek to forget the pangs which an habitual tenderness has brought upon me.

You, who are at ease, may have it in your power to convey some small satisfaction to my wounded breast. But why do I say small satisfaction? To me it will be the highest to hear that my Julia is happy. Do you then, my dear Spencer, enquire, among your acquaintance, the character of this Sir William Stanley. His figure is genteel, nay, rather handsome; yet he does not look the man I could wish for her. I did not discover that look of tenderness, that soft impassioned glance, which virtuous love excites; but you will not expect a favourable picture from a rival's pen.

I mentioned a disappointment which the sister of my Julia had sustained: it was just before I left England. While on a visit at Abergavenny, she became acquainted with a young gentleman of fortune, who, after taking some pains to render himself agreeable, had the satisfaction of gaining the affections of one of the most amiable girls in the world. She is all that a woman can be, except being my Julia. Louisa was at that time extremely attached to a lady in the same house with her, who was by no means a favourite with her lover. They used frequently to have little arguments concerning her. He would not allow her any merit. Louisa fancied she saw her own image reflected in the bosom of her friend. She is warm in her attachments. Her zeal for her friend at last awakened a curiosity in her lover, to view her with more scrutiny. He had been accustomed to pay an implicit obedience to Louisa's opinion; he fancied he was still acquiescing only in that opinion when he began to discover she was handsome, and to find some farther beauties which Louisa had not painted in so favourable a light as he now saw them. In short, what at first was only a compliment to his mistress, now seemed the due of the other. He thought Louisa had hardly done her justice; and in seeking to repair that fault, he injured the woman who doated on him. Love, which in some cases is blind, is in others extremely quick-sighted. Louisa saw a change in his behaviour—a studied civility—an apprehension of not appearing sufficiently assiduous—frequent expressions of fearing to offend—and all those mean arts and subterfuges which a man uses, who wants to put in a woman's power to break with him, that he may basely shelter himself behind, what he styles, her cruelty. Wounded to the soul with the duplicity of his conduct, she, one day, insisted on knowing the motives which induced him to act in so disingenuous a manner by her. At first his answers were evasive; but she peremptorily urged an explicit satisfaction. She told him, the most unfavourable certainty would be happiness to what she now felt, and that certainty she now called on him in justice to grant her. He then began by palliating the fatal inconstancy of his affections, by the encomiums which she had bestowed on her friend; that his love for her had induced him to love those dear to her; and some unhappy circumstances had arisen, which had bound him to her friend, beyond his power or inclination to break through. This disappointment, in so early a part of Louisa's life, has given a tenderness to her whole frame, which is of advantage to most women, and her in particular. She has, I question not, long since beheld this unworthy wretch in the light he truly deserved; yet, no doubt, it was not till she had suffered many pangs. The heart will not recover its usual tone in a short time, that has long been racked with the agonies of love; and even when we fancy ourselves quite recovered, there is an aching void, which still reminds us of former anguish.

I shall not be in town these ten days at least, as I find I can be serviceable to a poor man in this neighbourhood, whom I believe to be an object worthy attention. Write me,