To the Chevalier Dubois, at Malta.

It is very well, my dear Dubois, you indulge your vein of raillery; it is your turn, and I must allow it you, especially as you always do it in a manner which pleases rather than hurts.

You seem to be highly entertained with what you call a very prosperous opening; we are all in the right train you cry, and do not doubt but by this time Zilia and I perfectly understand each other: how will you be surprised to find that I have drawn no advantage from that beginning; nor has love been the subject of our conversation since that day. No, believe me, our discourses and thoughts have been turned a sublimer way.

I do not pretend to say that love does not mix itself with all my thoughts, though I never talk of it but to you; a silence, which I should perhaps have found difficult to have kept, had I not been engrossed by another topic.

The day after I wrote you the last letter, my brother, sister, and self, dined with Zilia; the weather was sultry, and we sat in a delicious grove, where the trees formed an arched canopy over our heads; the shadow of the boughs, which were just moved by the wind, chequered the sunbeams on the ground, and made a constant tremulous motion; while the little choiristers, that were perched here and there, seemed, by their various notes, to express their thanks for the crumbs they received from our table.

After our repast, we strolled through a winding path, which gradually opened to the banks of a river; here we seated ourselves in an arbour, composed of jessamine and woodbines. The prospect on the other side was delightfully romantic; the green sloping hills, which descended to the water, were shaded round with woods and vineyards: and it being the time of the vintage, nothing could appear more luxuriant.