Clara and her husband are separated for ever! St. Louis is frantic, and I am distressed beyond measure. My heart is torn with anxiety for her fate, and I shall know no tranquillity till I hear that she is at least content. Being acquainted with many of the circumstances which led to this event, I pity and pardon her. As for the world, its sentence is already pronounced, and she will be condemned by those who possess not a thousandth part of her virtues. Her husband spares neither pains nor expense in searching after her retreat; but, though I am absolutely ignorant of it, I believe she is beyond his reach. His house is so disagreeable to me, since she left it, and the wry faces made by all our friends, seeming to involve me in the scandal occasioned by her elopement, excite such unpleasant sensations that it will be impossible for me to remain here. Therefore I shall leave this place immediately with a lady who is going to establish herself in Jamaica. I have always desired to see that island, and there I intend to stay till I have some positive information of Clara. If she is gone to the continent I shall follow her immediately; if she is in Cuba my friendship, my presence will console her, and they shall not be wanting. One of my friends, a man of intelligence and discretion, has promised to find her, if possible, and has promised also not to betray her, for she must never be restored to the power of her husband. Far from being an advocate for the breach of vows so sacred as those which bound her to St. Louis, I have always expressed with unqualified warmth, my disapprobation of the levity of many women who had abandoned their husbands. But there are circumstances which palliate error. Many of those which led to Clara's elopement plead for her; but if she has sought protection with another, if she will not accompany me, my heart renounces her, and she will no longer have a sister. We sail in three days. St. Louis makes no objection to my going, and I leave Cuba without regret, for in it I have never been happy. Write to me at Kingston. Never was the assurance of your friendship more necessary to my heart than at this moment. LETTER XXV. _Kingston, Jamaica._ We arrived at Kingston after a passage of twenty-four hours. On entering the harbour our little vessel, as it passed near the admiral's ship, appeared like an ant at the foot of a mountain. Nothing is more delightful than the bustle and continual movement that strikes the eye on entering this port. Innumerable boats are continually plying round the vessels, offering for sale all the fruits of the season. I like the town. There is an air of neatness in the houses which I have no where seen since I left my own country; but the streets are detestable; none of them are paved, and at every step you sink ankle deep in sand.