Last night I went on a vi&longs;it to
your hou&longs;e: It was an adventure that would
have done honour to the Knight of La
Mancha. The moon a&longs;cended a clear, serene
&longs;ky, the air was &longs;till, the bells &longs;ounded
the &longs;olemn hour of midnight—I &longs;ighed—and
the rea&longs;on of it I need not tell you. This
was, indeed, a pilgrimage; and no Mu&longs;&longs;elman
ever travelled barefooted to Mecca with more
&longs;incere devotion.

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YOUR ab&longs;ence would cau&longs;e an in&longs;ufferable
ennui in your friends, were it not for the art
we have in making it turn to our amu&longs;ement.
In&longs;tead of wi&longs;hing you were of our party,
you are the godde&longs;s to who&longs;e honour we
perform innumerable Heatheni&longs;h rites. Libations
of wine are poured out, but not a
gue&longs;t pre&longs;umes to ta&longs;te it, until they implore
the name of Harriot; we hail the new divinity
in &longs;ongs, and &longs;trew around the flowers
of poetry. You need not, however, take to
your&longs;elf any extraordinary addition of vanity
on this occa&longs;ion, as your ab&longs;ence will not
cau&longs;e any repining:

“Harriot, our godde&longs;s and our grief no more.”

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BUT to give you my opinion on
this important matter, I mu&longs;t de&longs;cend to
plain truth, and acknowledge I had rather
adore you a pre&longs;ent mortal, than an ab&longs;ent
divinity; and therefore wi&longs;h for your return
with more religious ardour than a devout
di&longs;ciple of the fal&longs;e prophet for the company
of the Houri.

THANKS to the power of imagination for
one fanciful interview. Methought I somewhere
unexpectedly met you—but I was
&longs;oon undeceived of my imaginary happine&longs;s,
and I awoke, repeating the&longs;e ver&longs;es:—

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