smaller share of understanding, enjoys no satisfaction except in the pedigree of her ancestors, no protection save in her noble birth, and no enjoyment but in looking from her castle over the heads of the humble citizens.  She was, no doubt, handsome in her youth, and in her early years probably trifled away her time in rendering many a poor youth the sport of her caprice:  in her riper years she has submitted to the yoke of a veteran officer, who, in return for her person and her small independence, has spent with her what we may designate her age of brass.  He is dead; and she is now a widow, and deserted.  She spends her iron age alone, and would not be approached, except for the loveliness of her niece.

January 8, 1772.

What beings are men, whose whole thoughts are occupied with form and ceremony, who for years together devote their mental and physical exertions to the task of advancing themselves but one step, and endeavouring to occupy a higher place at the table.  Not that such persons would otherwise want employment:  on the contrary, they give themselves much trouble by neglecting important business for such petty trifles.  Last week a question of precedence arose at a sledging-party, and all our amusement was spoiled.

The silly creatures cannot see that it is not place which constitutes real greatness, since the man who occupies the first place but seldom plays the principal part.  How many kings are governed by their ministers —­ how many ministers by their secretaries?  Who, in such cases, is really the chief?  He, as it seems to me, who can see through the others, and possesses strength or skill enough to make their power or passions subservient to the execution of his own designs.

January 20.

I must write to you from this place, my dear Charlotte, from a small room in a country inn, where I have taken shelter from a severe storm.  During my whole residence in that wretched place D—­, where I lived amongst strangers, —­ strangers, indeed, to this heart, —­ I never at any time felt the smallest inclination to correspond with you; but in this cottage, in this retirement, in this solitude, with the snow and hail beating against my lattice-pane, you are my first thought.  The instant I entered, your figure rose up before me, and the remembrance!  O my Charlotte, the sacred, tender remembrance!  Gracious Heaven! restore to me the happy moment of our first acquaintance.

Could you but see me, my dear Charlotte, in the whirl of dissipation, —­ how my senses are dried up, but my heart is at no time full.  I enjoy no single moment of happiness:  all is vain —­ nothing touches me.  I stand, as it were, before the raree-show:  I see the little puppets move, and I ask whether it is not an optical illusion.  I am amused with these puppets, or, rather, I am myself one of them:  but, when I sometimes grasp my neighbour’s hand, I feel that it is not natural; and I withdraw mine with a shudder.  In the evening I say I will enjoy the next morning’s sunrise, and yet I remain in bed:  in the day I promise to ramble by moonlight; and I, nevertheless, remain at home.  I know not why I rise, nor why I go to sleep.