Oh, Risby! my heart is breaking; for once let it be said a man’s heart can break.—­Whilst he rav’d, whilst his sorrows were loud, there was some chance; but now all is over.  He is absolutely dying;—­death is in every feature.—­His convulsions how dreadful!—­how dreadful the pale horror of his countenance!—­But then so calm,—­so compos’d!—­I repeat, there can, be no chance.—­

Where is Molesworth?  I heard him say as I enter’d his apartment:  come to me, my friend,—­holding out his hand—­come to me, my friend.—­Don’t weep—­don’t let me leave you in tears.—­If you wish me well, rejoice:—­think how I should have dragg’d out a miserable number of days, after—­oh, George! after—­Here he stopp’d.—­The surgeon desir’d he would suffer us to lift him on the bed.—­No, he said, in a faultering accent, if I move I shall die before I have made known to my friend my last request.—­Upon which the physician and surgeon retir’d to a distant part of the room, to give him an opportunity of speaking with greater freedom.

He caught hold of my hand with the grasp of anguish, saying, Go, go.  I entreat you, by that steady regard which has subsisted between us,—­go to the unhappy family:—­if they can be comforted; ay, if they can, you must undertake the task.—­I will die without you.—­Tell them I send the thanks, the duty, of a dying man;—­that they must consider me as their own.  A few, a very few hours! and I shall be their own;—­I shall be united to their angel daughter.—­Dear soul, he cried, is it for this,—­for this, I tore myself from you!—­But stop, I will not repine; the reward of my sufferings is at hand.

Now, you may lift me on the bed;—­now, my friend, pointing to the door,—­now, my dear Molesworth, if you wish I should die in—­there fainted.—­He lay without signs of life so long, that I thought, all was over.—­

I cannot comply with his last request;—­it is his last I am convinc’d;—­he will never speak more, Risby!—­he will never more pronounce the name of Molesworth.

Be yours the task he assign’d me.—­Go instantly to the friends you revere;—­go to Mr. and Mrs. Powis, the poor unfortunate parents.—­Abroad they were to you as tender relations;—­in England, your first returns of gratitude will be mournful.—­You have seen Miss Powis:—­it could be no other than that lovely creature whom you met so accidentally at ——­:  the likeness she bore to her father startled you.  She was then going with Mr. Jenkings into Oxfordshire:—­you admired her;—­but had you known her mind, how would you have felt for Darcey!

Be cautious, tender, and circumspect, in your sad undertaking.—­Go first to the old steward’s, about a mile from the Abbey; if he is not return’d, break it to his wife and son.—­They will advise, they will assist you, in the dreadful affair;—­I hope the poor old gentleman has not proceeded farther than London.—­Write the moment you have seen the family; write every melancholy particular:  my mind is only fit for such gloomy recitals.—­Farewel!  I go to my dying friend.