Looks, her Gestures, were properly adapted to the Sentiments she exprest. Such
indeed was her Image, that neither could Shakespeare describe, nor Hogarth
paint, nor Clive act a Fury in higher Perfection.
    »What do you hear?« reiterated she. »You hear the Resentment of the most
injured of Women. You have heard, you say, of the Murder; but do you know the
Cause, Mr. Booth? Have you, since your Return to England, visited that Country
where we formerly knew one another? Tell me, do you know my wretched Story? Tell
me that, my Friend.«
    Booth hesitated for an Answer; indeed he had heard some imperfect Stories,
not much to her Advantage. She waited not till he had formed a Speech; but
cried, »Whatever you may have heard, you cannot be acquainted with all the
strange Accidents which have occasioned your seeing me in a Place, which, at our
last Parting, was so unlikely that I should ever have been found in; nor can you
know the Cause of all that I have uttered, and which, I am convinced, you never
expected to have heard from my Mouth. If these Circumstances raise your
Curiosity, I will satisfy it.«
    He answered, that Curiosity was too mean a Word to express his ardent Desire
of knowing her Story. Upon which, with very little previous Ceremony, she began
to relate what is written in the following Chapter.
    But before we put an End to this, it may be necessary to whisper a Word or
two to the Critics, who have perhaps begun to express no less Astonishment than
Mr. Booth, that a Lady, in whom we had remarked a most extraordinary Power of
displaying Softness, should the very next Moment after the Words were out of our
Mouth, express Sentiments becoming the Lips of a Dalila, Jezebel, Medea,
Semiramis, Parysatis, Tanaquil, Livilla, Messalina, Agrippina, Brunichilde,
Elfrida, Lady Macbeth, Joan of Naples, Christina of Sweden, Katharine Hays,
Sarah Malcolm, Con. Philips,6 or any other Heroine of the tender Sex, which
History sacred or prophane, antient or modern, false or true, hath recorded.
    We desire such Critics to remember, that it is the same English Climate, in
which on the lovely 10th of June, under a serene Sky, the amorous Jacobite
kissing the odoriferous Zephyr's Breath, gathers a Nose-gay of white Roses to
deck the whiter Breast of Celia; and in which, on the 11th of June, the very
next Day, the boisterous