To the Chevalier Dubois, at Malta

Rejoice with me, my dear Dubois, for all is accomplished, and Zilia is mine. A fortnight is past since I received every worldly bliss, in receiving her. The day was remarkably fine; the Sun seemed to display all his glory, as a compliment to her who was once stiled his daughter, the innocence of whose countenance made her still appear like a virgin of that luminary. The simplicity of her dress corresponded with her looks; it was of white Indian taffety; and all together, she looked and moved an angel.

Oh! my dear friend, I have indeed reached the summit of earthly happiness: but as all sublunary happiness must have its allay, ours has received no inconsiderable one, by the loss of the tender and amiable Maria, that constant, faithful friend, to whom we are both so much indebted. She has left us about a week, and retired to that convent where her wishes had so long been: yet I believe we should not so soon have lost her, had it not been for a melancholy piece of news she received a day or two after our marriage: it was the death of the unfortunate St. Far, who with his latest breath bequeathed a few jewels of his mother's to Miss St. Clare. These, with a letter written some hours before his death, were conveyed to her by a trusty friend of that gentleman. Poor Maria, after having in solitude given vent to the first effusions of her grief, came to my wife, and addressed her in these words:

“The pleasure, my dear Zilia, I had in seeing you happy, made me willing to spend a little more time with you, before I quitted the world for ever. I had designed to give you a month, but this last dreadful event has totally changed that design: I shall set out for the convent to-morrow, and immediately embrace the only state in which I can support life.”