Leslie Castle, an unfinished novel in letters to.

Henry Thomas Austin esquire, Sir, I am now availing myself of the liberty you have frequently honored me with of dedicating one of my novels to you.

That it is unfinished.

I grieve yet fear that from me it will always remain, so that as far as it is carried, it should be so trifling and so unworthy of you.

Is another concern to your obliged, humble servant, the author.

Messr's demand and co.

Please to pay Jane Austen Spinster the sum of one hundred guineas on account of your humble servant, H.

T.

Austin, Leslie Castle.

Letter.

The first is from Miss Margaret Leslie to Miss.

Charlotte Lateral, Leslie Castle, January the third, seventeen ninety two.

My brother has just left us, Matilda, said he, at parting you and Margaret, will I am certain take all the care of my dear little one that she might have received from an indulgent and affectionate and amiable mother.

Tears rolled down his cheeks as he spoke these words, the remembrance of her who had so wantonly disgraced the maternal character, and so openly violated the conjugal duties prevented his adding anything farther.

He embraced his sweet child, and, after saluting Matilda and Me, hastily broke from us and, seating himself in his chaise, pursued the road to Aberdeen.

Never was there a better young man, Ah, how little did he deserve the misfortunes he has experienced in the marriage state.

So good a.

Husband to so bad a wife.

For you know, my dear Charlotte, that the worthless Louisa left him her child and reputation a few weeks ago in company with Danvers and Dishonor.

Never was there a sweet a face, a finer form, or a less amiable heart than Louisa owned.

Her child already possesses the personal charms of her unhappy mother.

May she inherit from her father or his mental ones.

Leslie is at present but five and twenty, and has already given himself up to melancholy and despair.

What a difference between him and his father, Sir George's fifty seven and still remains the beau, the flighty, stripling, the gay lad, the sprightly youngster that his son was really about five years back, and that he is affected to appear ever since my remembrance.

While our father is fluttering about the streets of London, gay, dissipated and thoughtless, at the age of fifty seven, Matildre and I continue secluded from mankind in our old and moldering castle, which is situated two miles from Perth on a bold projecting rock, and commands an extensive view of the town and its delightful environs.

But though retired from almost all the world, for we visit no one but the MacLeod's, the mckensie's, the macpherson's, the McCartneys, the MacDonald's, the McKinnon's, the mclellans, the McKay's, the macbeth's, and the mac duffs.

We are neither dull nor unhappy.

On the contrary, there were never two more lively, more agreeable, or more witty girls than we are.

Not an hour in the day hangs heavy on our hands.

We read, we work, we walk, and when fatigued with these employments, relieve our spirits either by a lively song, a graceful dance, or by some smart, bomb and witty repartee.

We are handsome, my dear Charlotte, very handsome, and the greatest of our perfections is that we are entirely insensible of them ourselves.

But why do I thus dwell on myself?

Let me rather repeat the praise of our dear little niece, the innocent Louisa, who is at present sweetly smiling in a gentle nap as she reposes on the sofa.

The dear creature is just turned of two years old, as handsome as though two and twenty, as sensible as though two and thirty, and as prudent as though two and forty.

To convince you of this, I must inform you that she has a very fine complexion and very pretty features, that she already knows the first two letters in the alphabet, and that she never tears her frocks.

If I have not now convinced you of her beauty, sense and prudence, I have nothing more to urge in support of my assertion, and you will therefore have no way of deciding the affair.

But by coming to Lesley Castle, and by a personal acquaintance with Louisa, determined for yourself, Ah, my dear friend, how happy should I be?

To see you within these venerable walls.

It is now four years since my removal from school has separated me from you.

That two such tender hearts, so closely linked together by the ties of sympathy and friendship, should be so widely removed from each other is vastly moving.

I live in Perthshire, you in Sussex.

We might meet in London, were my father disposed to carry me there, and were your mother to be there at the same time.

We might meet at Bath, at Tunbridge, or anywhere else.

Indeed, could we but be at the same place together.

We have only to hope that such a period may arrive.

My father does not return to us till autumn.

My brother will leave Scotland in a few days.

He is impatient to travel.

Mistaken youth, he vainly flatters himself that change of air will heal the wounds of a broken heart.

You will join with me.

I am certain, my dear Charlotte, in prayers for the recovery of the unhappy Leslie's peace of mind, which must ever be essential to that of your sincere friend, M.

Leslie.

End of letter.

The first