rifled away her time in rendering many a poor
youth the sport of her caprice: in her riper years she has submitted
to the yoke of a veteran officer, who, in return for her person and her
small independence, has spent with her what we may designate her age of
brass. He is dead; and she is now a widow, and deserted. She spends her
iron age alone, and would not be approached, except for the loveliness
of her niece.

JANUARY 8, 1772.

What beings are men, whose whole thoughts are occupied with form and
ceremony, who for years together devote their mental and physical
exertions to the task of advancing themselves but one step, and
endeavouring to occupy a higher place at the table. Not that such
persons would otherwise want employment: on the contrary, they give
themselves much trouble by neglecting important business for such petty
trifles. Last week a question of precedence arose at a sledging-party,
and all our amusement was spoiled.

The silly creatures cannot see that it is not place which constitutes
real greatness, since the man who occupies the first place but
seldom plays the principal part. How many kings are governed by their
ministers--how many ministers by their secretaries? Who, in such cases,
is really the chief? He, as it seems to me, who can see through the
others, and possesses strength or skill enough to make their power or
passions subservient to the execution of his own designs.

JANUARY 20.

I must write to you from this place, my dear Charlotte, from a small
room in a country inn, where I have taken shelter from a severe storm.
During my whole residence in that wretched place D--, where I lived
amongst strangers,--strangers, indeed, to this heart,--I never at any
time felt the smallest inclination to correspond with you; but in this
cottage, in this retirement, in this solitude, with the snow and hail
beating against my lattice-pane, you are my first thought. The instant
I entered, your figure rose up before me, and the remembrance! O my
Charlotte, the sacred, tender remembrance! Gracious Heaven! restore to
me the happy moment of our first acquaintance.

Could you but see me, my dear Charlotte, in the whirl of
dissipation,--how my senses are dried up, but my heart is at no time
full. I enjoy no single moment of happiness: all is vain--nothing
touches me. I stand, as it were, before the raree-show: I see the little
puppets move, and I ask whether it is not an optical illusion. I am
amused with t