 retire, to France, that I might at least expire in peace, and besought him to accompany me.—Not able without ingratitude immediately to quit his patron, he comforted me with the

hopes of soon partaking my voluntary exile.
How unworthy the man who won the innocent heart of my translated angel ever was of it, I had soon another convincing proof.—Because I resisted the impulses of despair—because I, listened to the dictates of virtue and religion, and deigned to live out the days appointed by the Almighty, his narrow soul began to believe mine susceptible of human consolation: he dared to intrude upon me in the name of the King, late offers of acknowledgment, distinction, fortune.—Heavens! how could either imagine I would owe aught to those I must alike look down upon?—The very idea had well nigh disarranged my feeble faculties, and destroyed the religious composure of my grief. It however convinced me that no opposition would be made to my quitting that prison in which I left, alas, all worth enclosing.—I launched once more into the immense world, unknown—unindeared, and willing to be so.

My fever returned on my landing in France with the most mortal symptoms.—Ah! can I fail here to commemorate the second angel heaven sent to my assistance? The arrival of the Embassador in his way toward England, though at first an inconvenience, in so narrow an asylum as an inn, eventually prolonged my days. His dear and lovely daughter was informed of my state—she indulged the sublime impulse of humanity, which led her towards the bed, where lay a forlorn wretch who appeared ready to draw her last breath in silent affliction. She summoned her noble father's physician, whose skill relieved one it could not save.—She even deigned to outstay the Embassador; and, by a glorious principle known only to superior natures, began to love the wretch she succored. A virtue so exemplary almost reconciled me to the world I am shortly to quit.— Sweet Adelaide, when in this faint portrait you survey yourself, sigh for those decaying powers which cannot render it more striking.

That my decline has been prolonged till this narrative is concluded, I do not regret; and by compliance, I have evinced my sense of your friendship:—I have now only to die.—Yet, alas, it is with regret I present to your youthful eyes so melancholy a chart of my yoyage through life.—Suffer it not to damp your hopes, but rather let it blunt your sense of misfortune: for have I not said already, that consummate misery has a moral use, in
