When I had written the preceding letter, not knowing what to do with
myself, recollecting, and in vain wishing for that delightful and
improving conversation, which I had now for ever lost; I thought I had as
good begin the task, which I had for some time past resolved to begin;
that is to say, to go to church; and see if I could not reap some benefit
from what I should hear there. Accordingly I determined to go to hear
the celebrated preacher at St. James's church. But, as if the devil (for
so I was then ready to conclude) thought himself concerned to prevent my
intention, a visit was made me, just as I was dressed, which took me off
from my purpose.

From whom should this visit be, but from Sally Martin, accompanied by
Mrs. Carter, the sister of the infamous Sinclair! the same, I suppose I
need not tell you, who keeps the bagnio near Bloomsbury.

These told me that the surgeon, apothecary, and physician, had all given
the wretched woman over; but that she said, she should not die, nor be at
rest, till she saw me; and they besought me to accompany them in the
coach they came in, if I had one spark of charity, of christian charity,
as they called it, left.

I was very loth to be diverted from my purpose by a request so unwelcome,
and from people so abhorred; but at last went, and we got thither by ten;
where a scene so shocking presented itself to me, that the death of poor
desponding Belton is not, I think, to be compared with it.

The old wretch had once put her leg out by her rage and violence, and had
been crying, scolding, cursing, ever since the preceding evening, that
the surgeon had told her it was impossible to save her; and that a
mortification had begun to show itself; insomuch that, purely in