LETTER I.
To Mr. Sarsefield.
I came hither but ten minutes ago, and write this letter
in the bar of the stage-house. I wish not to lose a moment
in informing you of what has happened. I cannot do justice
to my own feelings when I reflect upon the rashness of
which I have been guilty.
I will give you the particulars tomorrow. At present, I
shall only say that Clithero is alive, is apprized of your wife's
arrival and abode in New York, and has set out, with mysterious
intentions to visit her.
May heaven avert the consequences of such a design.
May you be enabled by some means, to prevent their meeting.
If you cannot prevent it—but I must not reason on
such an event, nor lengthen out this letter.
