 it? Tried—sentenced—condemned—while I, entombed in a now detested solitude, gaily dreamt of endless happiness.—Oh! let me once more rush madly into the world, overwhelm my agonized

senses with the shouts of armies—the groans of the dying—fountains of blood —rivers of tears—find if possible a horror in nature may counteract that now raging in my soul.—The wreck of the universe alone can equal it.—But let me give the ruin scope—wherefore, wherefore, should I wish it lessened—Oh! Lady Pembroke!
LADY PEMBROKE WRITES,
The trembling hand of the friend last invoked, takes up the pen to finish the woes of a fair unfortunate, who will never more be her own historian.—Alas, they had now reached their climax.
The eccentric turn of mind which made the sweet Ellinor form a plan so extraordinary as her supposed death and burial, excited an astonishment in me, its artful execution alone could increase. Nevertheless, the regular pursuit of a single idea was far from persuading her friends, her intellects had recovered their tone, or equality.

When this heart-breaking narrative came to my hands, I could not but observe that the sweet mistress of Essex had a very partial knowledge of his character, or information of his actions.—Blest with the most equitable and generous heart that ever actuated a human bosom, his virtues often took a false colour from the selfish views of those who once found the way to it. Credulity was so much his fault, that even his enemies profited by it, whom he always ceased to consider as such, the moment they deigned to deceive him with a false protestation of regard.—In fact, the lenity of his nature continually counteracted that ambition, which was its only vice; and irradiated his character with the milder glories of humanity: a lustre, more soft, pure, and lasting, than mere conquest can bestow. Nevertheless, the early habits of power and distinction had seized on his affections, and even his love co-operating with that indulged foible, they increased together. The daring project he had formed, was

no way unfeasible, had he managed it with address; for he possessed the hearts of the whole kingdom, a few envious individuals excepted. But art was unknown to Essex; and those his superiority offended, were proficients in that science: unhappily too, they were so immediately around the Queen, that they could convert the suspicions she sometimes entertained of his conduct, into certainty. Yet so rooted was her love for this unfortunate favorite, that it long contended with that she bore herself; and tears of ill-judged fondness often absorbed the bitterness his
