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xxii patience. Whatever be the fate of this book, or of those which have preceded it; whether they have arisen like the insects kindled from the Sicilian fountain—quickened with one moment, and perishing with the next,—or whether, in spite of a thousand faults which no one can detect easier than myself, something, betokening, perhaps, no thoughtless or irreverent inattention to the varieties of Nature, and no unkindly disposition towards her offspring, may detain them on the public mind yet a little while beyond the brief season which gave them birth;——one gratification I have at least secured!—I have associated this novel, which I incline to hope may not be considered my worst, and which possibly may be my last, with such remembrances as will survive defeat, or endear success.
 * Adieu, my dear * * * * *,
 * Wishing you all health and happiness,
 * Believe me your very
 * Affectionate Friend,
 * E. L. B.

Hertford-street, April, 1830.