if I could help it, I would not love you, and that as long as I live I shall strive against it as against that which had been my ruin, and was certainly sent me as a punishment for my sin.  But I shall always have a sense of your misfortunes, equal, if not above, my own.  I shall pray that you may obtain a quiet I never hope for but in my grave, and I shall never change my condition but with my life.  Yet let not this give you a hope.  Nothing ever can persuade me to enter the world again.  I shall, in a short time, have disengaged myself of all my little affairs in it, and settled myself in a condition to apprehend nothing but too long a life, therefore I wish you would forget me; and to induce you to it, let me tell you freely that I deserve you should.  If I remember anybody, ’tis against my will.  I am possessed with that strange insensibility that my nearest relations have no tie upon me, and I find myself no more concerned in those that I have heretofore had great tenderness of affection for, than in my kindred that died long before I was born.  Leave me to this, and seek a better fortune.  I beg it of you as heartily as I forgive you all those strange thoughts you have had of me.  Think me so still if that will do anything towards it.  For God’s sake do take any course that may make you happy; or, if that cannot be, less unfortunate at least than

Your friend and humble servant,

D. OSBORNE.

I can hear nothing of that letter, but I hear from all people that I know, part of my unhappy story, and from some that I do not know.  A lady, whose face I never saw, sent it me as news she had out of Ireland.

Letter 44.

SIR,—­If you have ever loved me, do not refuse the last request I shall ever make you; ’tis to preserve yourself from the violence of your passion.  Vent it all upon me; call me and think me what you please; make me, if it be possible, more wretched than I am.  I’ll bear it all without the least murmur.  Nay, I deserve it all, for had you never seen me you had certainly been happy.  ’Tis my misfortunes only that have that infectious quality as to strike at the same time me and all that’s dear to me.  I am the most unfortunate woman breathing, but I was never false.  No; I call heaven to witness that if my life could satisfy for the least injury my fortune has done you (I cannot say ’twas I that did them you), I would lay it down with greater joy than any person ever received a crown; and if I ever forget what I owe you, or ever entertained a thought of kindness for any person in the world besides, may I live a long and miserable life.  ’Tis the greatest curse I can invent; if there be a greater, may I feel it.  This is all I can say.  Tell me if it be possible I can do anything for you, and tell me how I may deserve your pardon for all the trouble I have given you.  I would not die without it.

[Directed.] For Mr. Temple.

Letter 45.