moment her uncle Harlowe informs me that
he will grace the ceremony with his presence.

But she believes nothing I say; nor, (whether in her senses, or not)
bears me with patience in her sight.

I pity her with all my soul; and I curse myself, when she is in her
wailing fits, and when I apprehend that intellects, so charming, are
for ever damped.

But more I curse these women, who put me upon such an expedient! Lord!
Lord! what a hand have I made of it!--And all for what?

Last night, for the first time since Monday night, she got to her pen
and ink; but she pursues her writing with such eagerness and hurry, as
show too evidently her discomposure.

I hope, however, that this employment will help to calm her spirits.

***

Just now Dorcas tells me, that what she writes she tears, and throws
the paper in fragments under the table, either as not knowing what she
does, or disliking it: then gets up, wrings her hands, weeps, and
shifts her seat all round the room: then returns to her table, sits
down, and writes again.

***

One odd letter, as I may call it, Dorcas has this moment given me from
her--Carry this, said she, to the vilest of men. Dorcas, a toad,
brought it, without any further direction to me. I sat down, intending
(though 'tis pretty long) to give thee a copy of it: but, for my life,
I cannot; 'tis so extravagant. And the original is too much an
original to let it go out of my hands.

But some of the scraps and fragments, as either torn through, or flung
aside, I will copy, for the novelty of the thing, and to show thee how
her mind works now she is in the whimsical way. Yet I know I am still
furnishing thee with new weapons against myself. But spare thy comments.
My own reflections render them needless. Dorcas thinks her lady will
ask for them: so wishes to have them to lay again under the table.

By the first thou'lt guess that I have told her that Miss Howe is very
ill, and can't write; that she may account the better for not having
received the letter designed for her.

PAPER I
(Torn in two pieces.)

MY DEAREST MISS HOWE,

O what dreadful, dreadful things have I to tell you! But yet I cannot
tell you neither. But say, are you really ill, as a vile, vile
creature informs me you are?

But he never yet told me truth, and I hope has not in this: and yet, if
it were not true, surely I should have heard from you before now!--But
what have I to do to upbraid?--You may well