I am but just returned from Melissa's Bedside, and in my Life tho’ it has been a pretty long one, and I have during the course of it been at many Bedsides, I never saw so affecting an object as she exhibits. She lies wrapped in a book muslin bedgown, a chambray gauze shift, and a french net nightcap. Sir William is constantly at her bedside. The only repose he takes is on the Sopha in the Drawing room, where for five minutes every fortnight he remains in an imperfect Slumber, starting up every Moment and exclaiming “Oh! Melissa, Ah! Melissa,” then sinking down again, raises his left arm and scratches his head. Poor Mrs Burnaby is beyond measure afflicted. She sighs every now and then, that is about once a week; while the melancholy Charles says every Moment, “Melissa, how are you?” The lovely Sisters are much to be pitied. Julia is ever lamenting the situation of her freind, while lying behind her pillow and supporting her head—Maria more mild in her greif talks of going to Town next week, and Anna is always recurring to the pleasures we once enjoyed when Melissa was well.—I am usually at the fire cooking some little delicacy for the unhappy invalid— Perhaps hashing up the remains of an old Duck, toasting some cheese or making a Curry which are the favourite Dishes of our poor freind.—In these situations we were this morning surprised by receiving a visit from Dr Dowkins; “I am come to see Melissa,” said he. “How is She?” “Very weak indeed,” said the fainting Melissa—. “Very weak, replied the punning Doctor, aye indeed it is more than a very week since you have taken to your bed—How is your appetite?” “Bad, very bad, said Julia.” “That is very bad—replied he. Are her spirits good Madam?” “So poorly Sir that we are obliged to strengthen her with cordials every Minute.”