straint; the expressions seemed not the genuine feelings of the heart, but the laboured sentiments of a man fearful he should not say enough, and therefore ran into the contrary extreme, and said too much; at least so it appeared to Ferdinand.
"Ah! (thought he) all this eloquence breathes not the air of sincerity, which glows in the simple words of nature, uttered by Ernest through his nephew's pen." The farther he read the more he was dissatisfied, and when he had finished the letter he was thoroughly disgusted, and yet knew not well of what to complain.
"Whether it is ill-humour, prejudice, or the effects of a distempered mind, I know not (said he) but certainly this letter does not please me. He mentions the death of Claudina too so slightly, and with such little concern, that it is not decent, and of his own Lady he is entirely silent."
Revolving on those things which appeared so strange and unnatural, he had fallen into
