 though a generous heart, even labouring under the severest calamities, may be incapable of forming a wish for relief, at the expence of another's happiness, yet I am persuaded, that there is a sort of alleviation to be found, in reflecting that there are, or rather, that there have been, others much more wretched than ourselves.
Upon this principle then I shall send you this melancholy story, which I should never have been mistress of, had

the papers in which it was contained, though unsealed, been properly addressed; but as they were only superscribed with initials, I was obliged to look into the contents, in order to forward them to the person for whom they were designed; and I hope my taking a copy of them, for you, and you only, will not be considered as a breach of trust, either to the living, or the dead.
As soon as my brother and sister went out of town, which was the first moment I had leisure, I opened the little trunk which Mrs. Colville's last messenger brought to St. Omer's, and which may properly enough be called the lachrymal urn, of the unfortunate Maria; for in it was the tearful narrative of a life of sorrows, deposited; and though she is now

removed from a possibility of feeling them, they still retain the magnetic power of living grief, and must attract the sigh of pity from every tender, every feeling heart.
The STORY of MARIA.
To Mr. EDWARD S—.
Will the most tender and affectionate of brothers, with patience, condescend to read the sad confession of a dying wretch, who owns herself unworthy of his kindness,—Yet, trembling on the verge of life, solicits to obtain his pardon and pity!—Alas! my Edward, they will never reach me!—No friendly voice can ever sooth my ear, or speak peace to my perturbed heart! for soon the motion of its pulse shall cease, and this poor shattered frame return to dust.—Drop then

one fond forgiving tear upon these pages:—'Tis all I now can ask, or you, e'er long, can grant.
The story of my misconduct and misfortunes, perhaps, will reach you, before this letter.—How does my heart now bleed for that indignant grief your generous mind must feel, for a beloved sister's infamy!
I do not mean to extenuate my faults;—Alas! they will not bear extenuation!—And, conscious as I am of my approach to that tribunal, before which we must all e'er
