To the Chevalier Dubois, at Malta.

I am now, my dear Dubois, at a little villa of my brother's, about three miles from the residence of my fair friend – What does that name express! Surely, with a female, every thing that is tender: Dull, insensible clods, who talk of Platonick love, a dream, a chimera, which never did, nor ever will exist, but in the brains of monks and religious enthusiasts; who having deadened all tender feelings in themselves, endeavour to degrade the Deity, to whom all mankind have bowed, and set up this unnatural idol in his stead: Yet, my Zilia would persuade me, that it is possible for me to yield to their nonsensical jargon. Strange! that she, who judges so justly in all other things, should in this so much deceive herself; and that, while she cherishes a hopeless passion for a lover who is for ever lost, should imagine that I, the beloved object daily in my sight, can cease to wish her mine.

I am led into these reflections by an accidental interview we had this morning. My sister and Zilia being so near, and so fond of each other, are seldom asunder a day together. I have carefully avoided being left alone with my lovely Indian, fearing I should give offence by expressing, what I vainly endeavour to seem not to feel.

My sister being fond of reading, has a small study, to which I have free access: There have we frequently formed little parties, and read favourite poets, and sometimes philosophers, to my dear pupil, and been often charmed by the observations she has made: And there, it was that this morning, I inadvertently surprised the lovely maid.

I passed the last evening with a friend; and returning home, when the family were retired to rest, I did not know that Zilia spent the night with my sister.