ure infused into some chocolate. The slander of the times
imputed her death to the jealousy of the Duchess of York.]

While the town was in fear of some great disaster, as an expiation for
these fatal effects of jealousy, Hamilton was not altogether so easy
as he flattered himself he should be after the departure of Lady
Chesterfield: he had only consulted the dictates of revenge in what he
had done. His vengeance was satisfied; but such was far from being
the case with his love; and having, since the absence of her he
still admired, notwithstanding his resentments, leisure to make those
reflections which a recent injury will not permit a man to attend
to: "And wherefore," said he to himself, "was I so eager to make her
miserable, who alone, however culpable she may be, has it in her power
to make me happy? Cursed jealousy!" continued he, "yet more cruel to
those who torment than to those who are tormented! What have I gained by
having blasted the hopes of a more happy rival, since I was not able
to perform this without depriving myself, at the same time, of her upon
whom the whole happiness and comfort of my life was centred."

Thus, clearly proving to himself, by a great many reasonings of the
same kind, and all out of season, that in such an engagement it was much
better to partake with another than to have nothing at all, he filled
his mind with a number of vain regrets and unprofitable remorse, when he
received a letter from her who occasioned them, but a letter so exactly
adapted to increase them, that, after he had read it, he looked upon
himself as the greatest scoundrel in the world. Here it follows:

"You will, no doubt, be as much surprised at this letter as I was at the
unconcerned air with which you beheld my departure. I am led to believe
that you had imagined reasons which, in your own mind, justified such
unseasonable conduct. If you are still under the impression of such
barbarous sentiments it will afford you pleasure to be made acquainted
with what I suffer in the most horrible of prisons. Whatever the country
affords most melancholy in this season presents itself to my view on all
sides: surrounded by impassable roads, out of one window I see nothing
but rocks, out of another nothing but precipices; but wherever I turn
my eyes within doors I meet those of a jealous husband, still more
insupportable than the sad objects that encompass me. I should add to
the misfortunes of my life that of seeming