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wards Charlotte, my heart sinks within me; and I feel with bitterness how different I then was, from what I now am. Yes, all, all is vanished. Not a sentiment, not a pulsation of my heart is the same-, no traces of the past remain. If the shade of a departed prince could return to visit the superb palaces he had built in happy times, and left to a beloved son; and if he found them overthrown and destroyed by a more powerful neighbour, such would be his sensations.
LETTER LETTER LVII.
September 3. T Sometimes cannot comprehend *■ how it is that me loves another —how she dares love another, whilst: I bear her about me in this heart-'whilst she entirely fills and engrosses it—whilst I think only of her, know only her, and have nothing but her in the world. .' .
T T cost me much to part with the
■*■ blue frock which I wore the
first time I danced with Charlotte;
I I could I could not possibly appear in it any longer: but I have made another exactly like it, and with a buff waistcoat and breeches.
It has not however the same effect upon me. I don't know—but I hope in time it will be as dear to me.
September 15. A"\NE is tempted to wish one's self ^* at the devil, when one thinks of all the contemptible beings which Heaven suffers to crawl upon this earth, without any feeling, without any idea of the things which maybe interesting to others. You remember the walnut-trees at S. under which I sat with Charlotte at the worthy old vicar's. These beautiful, these beloved trees, how they adorned the parsonage-yard! their lhade was refreshing, it was respectable; for it carried one back with pleasing ideas to the good pastors who planted them. The schoolmaster often mentioned the name of him who planted the oldest of them. He had it from his grandfather. This vicar was an excellent man, and under these trees his respectable memory was ever present to me.
The The school-master had the tears in his eyes yesterday, when he told us they were cut down.—Cut down! I could in my fury murder the ruffian who struck the first stroke: I that should grieve if I had two such trees in my court, and one died of old age; I must endure this. I have however one consolation — such is sentiment—the whole village murmurs at it, and I hope the good peasants will make no more presents to the vicar's wife, and that she will suffer for the mischief she has done in the parish—for she did it, the wife of the present incumbent (our good old man is dead) a tall, meagre,