tions by her friend, I know she is of opinion that she ought to have
nobody living but you: and should continue single all her life, if she be
not your's.

Revenge and obstinacy, Mr. Hickman, will make women, the best of them, do
very unaccountable things. Rather than not put out both eyes of a man
they are offended with, they will give up one of their own.

I don't know what to say to this, Sir: but sure she cannot encourage any
other person's address!--So soon too--Why, Sir, she is, as we are told,
so ill, and so weak----

Not in resentment weak, I'll assure you. I am well acquainted with all
her movements--and I tell you, believe it, or not, that she refuses me in
view of another lover.

Can it be?

'Tis true, by my soul!--Has she not hinted this to Miss Howe, do you
think?

No, indeed, Sir. If she had I should not have troubled you at this time
from Miss Howe.

Well then, you see I am right: that though she cannot be guilty of a
falsehood, yet she has not told her friend the whole truth.

What shall a man say to these things!--(looking most stupidly perplexed.)

Say! Say! Mr. Hickman!--Who can account for the workings and ways of a
passionate and offended woman? Endless would be the histories I could
give you, within my own knowledge, of the dreadful effects of woman's
passionate resentments, and what that sex will do when disappointed.

There was Miss DORRINGTON, [perhaps you know her not,] who run away with
her father's groom, because he would not let her have a half-pay officer,
with whom (her passions all up) she fell in love at first sight, as he
accidentally passed under her window.

There was MISS SAVAGE; she married her mother's coachman, because her
mother refused her a journey to Wales; in apprehension that miss intended
to league herself with a remote cousin of unequal fortunes, of whom she
was not a little fond when he was a visiting-guest at their house for a
week.

There was the young widow SANDERSON, who believing herself slighted by a
younger brother of a noble family, (Sarah Stout like,) took it into her
head to drown herself.

Miss SALLY ANDERSON, [You have heard of her, no doubt?] being checked by
her uncle for encouraging an address beneath her, in spite, threw herself
into the arms of an ugly dog, a shoe-maker's apprentice, running away
with him in a pair of shoes he had just fitted to her feet, though she
never saw the fellow before, and hated him ever after: and, at last, t