child, at my own conscious debility.

Why should I despair?--With a modern miss, a fine lady, I might; but
not with her. She has a mind superior to the world, and its mistakes.
And am I not convinced there ought to be no impediment to our union?
Why should I doubt of convincing her? She dare do all that truth and
justice can demand--And she could love me if I would let her--Is not my
despondency absurd?--Even did I know her present thoughts, and know
them to be inimical to my passion, what ought I to do? Not to desert my
own cause, if it be a just one: and, if it be the contrary, there is no
question: I will make none. Let me but be convinced of my error, and it
shall be renounced. Yes, Oliver, I dare boldly aver--it shall! But
shall I forego a right so precious, if it be mine?--No! Kingdoms shall
not tempt me!--Why is this timidity? Why does my heart palpitate? Why
with inward whispers do I murmur thoughts which I dare not speak aloud?
Why do they rise quivering to my lips, and there panting expire,
painfully struggling for birth, but in vain? Oh! How poorly do I paint
what so oppressively I feel!

I would have thee read my whole heart. I shudder to suppose it possible
I should be a seducer. Falsely to be thought so would trouble me but
little. But tamely to yield up felicity so inestimable, in compliance
with the errors of mankind to renounce a union which might and ought to
be productive of so much good, is not this a crime?--Speak without
fear. Shew me what is right. Convince me, then blame me if I quail.

And now, Oliver, it is probable thou wilt not see me for these three
months. Delicate as these money favours are become in the transactions
of men, contemptible as they often are in themselves, and unwilling as
I have been to subject myself to them, I am glad that she has