ABSTRACT
If Glenarvon’s letters had given joy to Calanthaa in more prosperous and happier days, when surrounded by friends, what must they have appeared to her now, when bereft of all? They were as the light of Heaven to one immersed in darkness:b they were as health to the wretch who has pined in sickness: they were as riches to the poor, and joy to the suffering heart. What then must have been her feelings when they suddenly and entirely ceased! At first, she thought the wind was contrary, and the mails irregular. Of one thing she felt secure – Glenarvon could not mean to deceive her. His last letter, too, was kinder than any other; and the words with which he concluded itc were such as to / inspire her with confidence. ‘If, by any chance, however improbable,’ he said, ‘my letters fail to reach you, impute the delay to any cause whatever;d but do me enough justice not for one moment to doubt of me. I will comply with every request of your’s; and from you I require in return nothing but remembrance – the remembrance of one who has forgotten himself, the world, fame, hope, ambition – all here, and all hereafter, but you.’
