verbal reservation, by which she might lead me on in a Fool’s
Paradise, and make me the tool of her levity, her avarice, and her
love of intrigue as long as she liked, and dismiss me whenever it
suited her. This, you see, she has done, because my intentions grew
serious, and if complied with, would deprive her of the pleasures of a
single life! Offer marriage to this ‘tradesman’s daughter, who has as
nice a sense of honour as any one can have;’ and like Lady Bellaston
in Tom Jones, she cuts you immediately in a fit of abhorrence and
alarm. Yet she seemed to be of a different mind formerly, when
struggling from me in the height of our first intimacy, she exclaimed
—‘However I might agree to my own ruin, I never will consent to
bring disgrace upon my family!’ That I should have spared the
traitress after expressions like this, astonishes me when I look back
upon it. Yet if it were all to do over again, I know I should act just the
same part. Such is her power over me! I cannot run the least risk of
offending her—I love her so. When I look in her face, I cannot doubt
her truth! Wretched being that I am! I have thrown away my heart
and soul upon an unfeeling girl; and my life (that might have been so
happy, had she been what I thought her) will soon follow either
voluntarily, or by the force of grief, remorse, and disappointment. I
cannot get rid of the reflection for an instant, nor even seek relief
from its galling pressure. Ah! what a heart she has lost! All the love
and affection of my whole life were centred in her, who alone, I
thought, of all women had found out my true character, and knew
how to value my tenderness. Alas! alas! that this, the only hope, joy,
or comfort I ever had, should turn to a mockery, and hang like an
ugly film over the remainder of my days!—I was at Roslin Castle
yesterday. It lies low in a rude, but sheltered valley, hid from the
vulgar gaze, and powerfully reminds one of the old song. The
straggling fragments of the russet ruins, suspended smiling and
graceful in the air as if they would linger out another century to
please the curious beholder, the green larch-trees trembling between
with the blue sky and white silver clouds, the wild mountain plants
starting out here and there, the date of the year on an old low door-
way, but still more, the beds of flowers in orderly decay, that seem to
have no hand to tend them, but keep up a sort of traditional
remembrance of civilization in former ages, present altogether a
delightful and amiable subject for contemplation. The exquisite
beauty of the scene, with the thought of what I should feel, should I