How dared I reproach my love!--How dared I decide, I whose mind is almost subdued by my situation!--Think Caroline! one hour heavily creeps after its fellowed hour;--day slowly succeeds to day, barely distinguished by another name;--the sun shines one morning, and hides his beam the next;--yon tall trees who bow their heads to the wind on this side to-day may to-morrow wave them on the other: and here ends the chapter of my varieties.--Night, indeed, brings variety amidst endless confusions! Broken sleep and apalling visions create debility of mind and body for the ensuing dawn!--It is but the fainting embers of my former animation that sometimes gleam upon the darkness of my soul. And, even now, now, while I acknowledge and reprobate my folly, I could return to the horrors of apprehension, could run through volumes of dire presages affirming while I disbelieved, creating as if to be interwoven in my fate fantastic, shapeless evils from which my better reason would turn, and would pronounce the worthless offspring of misrepresentation and falsehood. And why, Caroline, should I be thus?--there is the question, that, as often as I impose on myself, as often returns unanswered.--I knew Clement was to go; and I know he _will_ come again. What is new in my destiny is delightful to remembrance: it is the sacred union plighted by our willing hearts in the sight of heaven, the confirmation the everlasting bond of affection, which renders every blessing of this life subordinate, from which no change of circumstance could release us, nor not even death itself shall cancel. I heard Clement speak one day of some ceremonials which would be deemed necessary to the ratification of this covenant, when we should enter the world.--Methinks I shall be loath to submit to them. The vow of the heart is of sacred dignity. Forms and ceremonies seem too trifling for its nature. But of the customs of your world, Caroline, I am ignorant. * * * * * I write at intervals--a giddiness returns upon me continually, and air is the only remedy. The last time I quitted my pen, I was almost overpowered, and could proceed no further than the great hall door. I sat on the step and leaned my head against a pillar of the portico.--It was not swooning, for I knew I was there.--I felt the cold wind blow on my face, but my limbs had lost their faculty, and my eye-sight its power.--A chill oppressive gripe seemed to fasten on my heart.--My uncle happened to pass in from the park.--He spoke, but I could not reply. I waved my hand, which he took in his; but, while he pressed it, he reproved me in an ungentle manner, for sitting on the damp stone, and exposed to the raw air--Tears unbidden and almost unexcited, roll down my cheeks. He called Andrew; and I was borne in, and laid on a sopha in the breakfast parlour.