TO MR FRANCIS. 'You once told me, that I was incapable of heroism; and you were right--yet, I am called to great exertions! a blow that has been suspended over my head, days, weeks, months, years, has at length fallen--still I live! My tears flow--I struggle, in vain, to suppress them, but they are not tears of blood!--My heart, though pierced through and through, is not broken! 'My friend, come and teach me how to acquire fortitude--I am wearied with misery--All nature is to me a blank--an envenomed shaft rankles in my bosom--philosophy will not heal the festering wound--_I am exquisitely wretched!_ 'Do not chide me till I get more strength--I speak to you of my sorrows, for your kindness, while I was yet a stranger to you, inspired me with confidence, and my desolate heart looks round for support. 'I am indebted to you--how shall I repay your goodness? Do you, indeed, interest yourself in my fate? Call upon me, then, for the few incidents of my life--I will relate them simply, and without disguise. There is nothing uncommon in them, but the effect which they have produced upon my mind--yet, that mind they formed. 'After all, my friend, what a wretched farce is life! Why cannot I sleep, and, close my eyes upon it for ever? But something whispers, "_this would be wrong_."--How shall I tear from my heart all its darling, close twisted, associations?--And must I live--_live for what?_ God only knows! Yet, how am I sure that there is a God--is he wise--is he powerful--is he benevolent? If he be, can he sport himself in the miseries of poor, feeble, impotent, beings, forced into existence, without their choice--impelled, by the iron hand of necessity, through mistake, into calamity?--Ah! my friend, who will condemn the poor solitary wanderer, whose feet are pierced with many a thorn, should he turn suddenly out of the rugged path, seek an obscure shade to shrowd his wounds, his sorrows, and his indignation, from the scorn of a pitiless world, and accelerate the hour of repose.[16] Who would be born if they could help it? You would perhaps--_you may do good_--But on me, the sun shines only to mock my woes--Oh! that I had never seen the light. [Footnote 16: This is the reasoning of a mind distorted by passion. Even in the moment of disappointment, our heroine judged better. See page 38.]