Poor, ill-advised, ungrateful Armour came home on Friday last. You have
heard all the particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is. What
she thinks of her conduct now I don't know; one thing I do know--she has
made me completely miserable. Never man loved, or rather adored a woman
more than I did her; and, to confess a truth between you and me, I do
still love her to distraction after all, though I won't tell her so if I
were to see her, which I don't want to do. My poor dear unfortunate
Jean! how happy have I been in thy arms! It is not the losing her that
makes me so unhappy, but for her sake I feel most severely: I foresee
she is in the road to, I am afraid, eternal ruin.

May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and perjury to me, as I from my
very soul forgive her; and may His grace be with her and bless her in
all her future life! I can have no nearer idea of the place of eternal
punishment than what I have felt in my own breast on her account. I have
tried often to forget her; I have run into all kinds of dissipation and
riots, mason-meetings, drinking-matches, and other mischief, to drive
her out of my head, but all in vain. And now for a grand cure; the ship
is on her way home that is to take me out to Jamaica; and then,
farewell, dear old Scotland! and farewell, dear ungrateful Jean! for
never, never will I see you more.

You will have heard that I am going to commence poet in print; and
to-morrow my work goes to the press. I expect it will be a volume of
about two hundred pages--it is just the last foolish action I intend to
do, and then turn a wise man as fast as possible.--Believe me to be,
dear Brice, your friend and well-wisher. R. B.

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