The perusal cost the three dear friends just named some tears. My grandmamma, Lucy tells me (for I was writing to you when they read it) made some fine observations upon the different situations in which the two gentlemen find themselves at this time. I myself could not but recollect the gay, fluttering figure that the poor Sir Hargrave made at Lady Betty Williams’s, perpetually laughing; and compare it with the dark scene he draws in the letter before me; all brought about in so short a space!

There are, I am told, ivorse men than this: were those who are but as dad, to be apprized of the cir-cumstances of Sir Ilargrave’s story, as fully as wo know them, would they not reflect and tremble at his fate, even though that of Merceda (whose exit, I am told, was all horror and despair) and of the unhappy Bagenhall, were not taken into the shocking account?

This last wretch, it seems, his spirits and consti-tution both broken, is gone, nobody knows whither, having narrowly escaped in person, from an execution that was out against him body and goods; the latter all seized upon; his wife big with child turned out of doors; a mortgagee in possession of his estate: the poor woman wishing but for means to transport herself to her mean friends at Abbeville; a collection set on foot in her neighbourhood, for that pur — pose, failing; for the poor man was neither beloved, nor pitied.

These particulars your brother’s trusty Saunders told my Sally, and in confidence, that your brother. a little before he came down, being acquainted with her destitute condition, sent her, by him, twenty guineas. Saunders said, he never saw a deeper ^cene of distress.

The poor woman, on her knees, received tlu bounty; blessed the donor; owned herself reduced to the last shillhig; and that she thought of applying to the parish for assistance to carry her over.

Sir Charles staid not to supper. My grand-niamnia, being desirous to take leave of her favourite in the morning, has been prevailed upon to repose here to-night.

I must tell you, my Charlotte, all my fears, my feelings, my follies: you are now, you know, my Lucy. Something arises in my heart, that makes me uneasy: I cannot account to myself for this great and sudden change of behaviour in Greville. His extraordinary civilities, even to fondness, to your brother! Are they consistent with his blustering character, and constant threatenings of any man wlio was likely to succeed with me? A turn of behaviour so sudden! Sir Charles and he in a manner strangers, but by character And did he not so far l)rosccute his menaces, as to try, wicked wretch! \v hat bluster and a drawn sword would do, and smart for it? Must not that disgrace incense him? My micle says, he cannot be a true spirit; witness his coin;)roaiise with Fenwick, after a rencounter, \^hich, being reported to be on my account, had iikc to have killed nie at the time. And if not a trur spirit, may he not be treacherous! God preserve your brother from all secret as v.ell as open uUaL’ks! And do you, my dear ladies, forgive the ii.iider folly of your