compassionate if I do all that I can
without prejudicing myself too much, so let me tell you, that if I could
help it, I would not love you, and that as long as I live I shall strive
against it as against that which had been my ruin, and was certainly
sent me as a punishment for my sin. But I shall always have a sense of
your misfortunes, equal, if not above, my own. I shall pray that you may
obtain a quiet I never hope for but in my grave, and I shall never
change my condition but with my life. Yet let not this give you a hope.
Nothing ever can persuade me to enter the world again. I shall, in a
short time, have disengaged myself of all my little affairs in it, and
settled myself in a condition to apprehend nothing but too long a life,
therefore I wish you would forget me; and to induce you to it, let me
tell you freely that I deserve you should. If I remember anybody, 'tis
against my will. I am possessed with that strange insensibility that my
nearest relations have no tie upon me, and I find myself no more
concerned in those that I have heretofore had great tenderness of
affection for, than in my kindred that died long before I was born.
Leave me to this, and seek a better fortune. I beg it of you as heartily
as I forgive you all those strange thoughts you have had of me. Think me
so still if that will do anything towards it. For God's sake do take any
course that may make you happy; or, if that cannot be, less unfortunate
at least than

Your friend and humble servant,

D. OSBORNE.

I can hear nothing of that letter, but I hear from all people that I
know, part of my unhappy story, and from some that I do not know. A
lady, whose face I never saw, sent it me as news she had out of Ireland.

_Letter 44._

SIR,--If you have ever loved me, do not refuse the last request I shall
ever make you; 'tis to preserve yourself from the violence of your
passion. Vent it all upon me; call me and think me what you please; make
me, if it be possible, more wretched than I am. I'll bear it all without
the least murmur. Nay, I deserve it all, for had you never seen me you
had certainly been happy. 'Tis my misfortunes only that have that
infectious quality as to strike at the same time me and all that's dear
to me. I am the most unfortunate woman breathing, but I was never false.
No; I call heaven to witness that if my life could satisfy for the least
injury my fortune has done you (I cannot say 'twas I that did them you),
I w