As no person entertained any doubt of his having poisoned her, the populace of his neighbourhood had a design of tearing him in pieces, as soon as he should come abroad; but he shut himself up to bewail her death, until their fury was appeased by a magnificent funeral, at which he distributed four times more burnt wine than had ever been drunk at any burial in England.

[The lampoons of the day, some of which are to be found in Andrew Marvell’s Works, more than insinuate that she was deprived of life by a mixture infused into some chocolate.  The slander of the times imputed her death to the jealousy of the Duchess of York.]

While the town was in fear of some great disaster, as an expiation for these fatal effects of jealousy, Hamilton was not altogether so easy as he flattered himself he should be after the departure of Lady Chesterfield:  he had only consulted the dictates of revenge in what he had done.  His vengeance was satisfied; but such was far from being the case with his love; and having, since the absence of her he still admired, notwithstanding his resentments, leisure to make those reflections which a recent injury will not permit a man to attend to:  “And wherefore,” said he to himself, “was I so eager to make her miserable, who alone, however culpable she may be, has it in her power to make me happy?  Cursed jealousy!” continued he, “yet more cruel to those who torment than to those who are tormented!  What have I gained by having blasted the hopes of a more happy rival, since I was not able to perform this without depriving myself, at the same time, of her upon whom the whole happiness and comfort of my life was centred.”

Thus, clearly proving to himself, by a great many reasonings of the same kind, and all out of season, that in such an engagement it was much better to partake with another than to have nothing at all, he filled his mind with a number of vain regrets and unprofitable remorse, when he received a letter from her who occasioned them, but a letter so exactly adapted to increase them, that, after he had read it, he looked upon himself as the greatest scoundrel in the world.  Here it follows: 

“You will, no doubt, be as much surprised at this letter as I was at the unconcerned air with which you beheld my departure.  I am led to believe that you had imagined reasons which, in your own mind, justified such unseasonable conduct.  If you are still under the impression of such barbarous sentiments it will afford you pleasure to be made acquainted with what I suffer in the most horrible of prisons.  Whatever the country affords most melancholy in this season presents itself to my view on all sides:  surrounded by impassable roads, out of one window I see nothing but rocks, out of another nothing but precipices; but wherever I turn my eyes within doors I meet those of a jealous husband, still more insupportable than the sad objects that encompass me.  I should add to the misfortunes of my life that of seeming