LETTER XXXVI.Feb. 10.You talk of “permanent views and future comfort”—not for me, for I am dead to hope. The inquietudes of the last winter have finished the business, and my heart is not only broken, but my constitution destroyed. I conceive myself in a galloping consumption, and the continual anxiety I feel at the thought of leaving my child, feeds the fever that nightly devours me. It is on her account that I again write to you, to conjure you, by all that you hold sacred, to leave her here with the German lady you may have heard me mention! She has a child of the same age, and they may be brought up together, as I wish her to be brought up. I shall write more fully on the subject. To facilitate this, I shall give up my present lodgings, and go into the same house. I can live much cheaper there, which is now become an object. I have had 3000 livres from ——, and I shall take one more to pay my servant’s wages, &c. and then I shall endeavour to procure what I want by my own exertions. Ishall entirely give up the acquaintance of the Americans.—— and I have not been on good terms a long time. Yesterday he very unmanlily exulted over me, on account of your determination to stay. I had provoked it is true, by some asperities against commerce, which have dropped from me, when we have argued about the propriety of your remaining where you are; and it is no matter, I have drunk too deep of the bitter cup to care about trifles.When you first entered into these plans, you bounded your views to the gaining of a thousand pounds. It was sufficient to have procured a farm in America, which would have been an independence. You find now that you did not know yourself, and that a certain situation in life is more necessary to you than you imagined—more necessary than an uncorrupted heart—For a year or two you may procure yourself what you call pleasure; eating, drinking, and women; but in the solitude of declining life, I shall be remembered with regret—I was going to say with remorse, but checked my pen.As I have never concealed the nature of my connection with you, reputation will not suffer. I shall never have a confident: I am content withthe approbation of my own mind; and, if there be a searcher of hearts, mine will not be despised. Reading what you have written relative to the desertion of women, I have often wondered how theory and practice could be so different, till I recollected, that the sentiments of passion, and the resolves of reason, are very distinct. As to my sisters, as you are so continually hurried with business, you need not write to them—I shall, when my mind is calmer. God bless you! Adieu!* * * *This has been such a period of barbarity and misery, I ought not to complain of having my share. I wish one moment that I had never heard of the cruelties that have been practised here, and the next envy the mothers who have been killed with their children. Surely I had suffered enough in life, not to be cursed with a fondness, that burns up the vital stream I am imparting. You will think me mad: I would I were so, that I could forget my misery—so that my head or heart would be still.——
Feb. 10.
Feb. 10.
Feb. 10.
Feb. 10.
You talk of “permanent views and future comfort”—not for me, for I am dead to hope. The inquietudes of the last winter have finished the business, and my heart is not only broken, but my constitution destroyed. I conceive myself in a galloping consumption, and the continual anxiety I feel at the thought of leaving my child, feeds the fever that nightly devours me. It is on her account that I again write to you, to conjure you, by all that you hold sacred, to leave her here with the German lady you may have heard me mention! She has a child of the same age, and they may be brought up together, as I wish her to be brought up. I shall write more fully on the subject. To facilitate this, I shall give up my present lodgings, and go into the same house. I can live much cheaper there, which is now become an object. I have had 3000 livres from ——, and I shall take one more to pay my servant’s wages, &c. and then I shall endeavour to procure what I want by my own exertions. Ishall entirely give up the acquaintance of the Americans.
—— and I have not been on good terms a long time. Yesterday he very unmanlily exulted over me, on account of your determination to stay. I had provoked it is true, by some asperities against commerce, which have dropped from me, when we have argued about the propriety of your remaining where you are; and it is no matter, I have drunk too deep of the bitter cup to care about trifles.
When you first entered into these plans, you bounded your views to the gaining of a thousand pounds. It was sufficient to have procured a farm in America, which would have been an independence. You find now that you did not know yourself, and that a certain situation in life is more necessary to you than you imagined—more necessary than an uncorrupted heart—For a year or two you may procure yourself what you call pleasure; eating, drinking, and women; but in the solitude of declining life, I shall be remembered with regret—I was going to say with remorse, but checked my pen.
As I have never concealed the nature of my connection with you, reputation will not suffer. I shall never have a confident: I am content withthe approbation of my own mind; and, if there be a searcher of hearts, mine will not be despised. Reading what you have written relative to the desertion of women, I have often wondered how theory and practice could be so different, till I recollected, that the sentiments of passion, and the resolves of reason, are very distinct. As to my sisters, as you are so continually hurried with business, you need not write to them—I shall, when my mind is calmer. God bless you! Adieu!
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This has been such a period of barbarity and misery, I ought not to complain of having my share. I wish one moment that I had never heard of the cruelties that have been practised here, and the next envy the mothers who have been killed with their children. Surely I had suffered enough in life, not to be cursed with a fondness, that burns up the vital stream I am imparting. You will think me mad: I would I were so, that I could forget my misery—so that my head or heart would be still.——
Feb. 19.
Feb. 19.
Feb. 19.
Feb. 19.
When I first received your letter, putting off your return to an indefinite time, I felt so hurt,that I know not what I wrote. I am now calmer though it was not the kind of wound over which time has the quickest effect; on the contrary, the more I think, the sadder I grow. Society fatigues me inexpressibly—So much so, that finding fault with every one, I have only reason enough to discover that the fault is in myself. My child alone interests me, and, but for her, I should not take any pains to recover my health.
As it is, I shall wean her, and try if by that step (to which I feel a repugnance, for it is my only solace) I can get rid of my cough. Physicians talk much of the danger attending any complaint on the lungs, after a woman has suckled for some months. They lay a stress also on the necessity of keeping the mind tranquil—and my God! how has mine been harrassed! But whilst the caprices of other women are gratified, “the wind of heaven not suffered to visit them too rudely,” I have not found a guardian angel, in heaven or on earth, to ward off sorrow or care from my bosom.
What sacrifices have you not made for a woman you did not respect!—But I will not go over this ground—I want to tell you that I do not understand you. You say that you have not given up all thoughts of returning here—and I know that it will be necessary—nay, is. I cannotexplain myself; but if you have not lost your memory, you will easily divine my meaning. What! is our life then only to be made up of separations? and am I only to return to a country, that has not merely lost all charms for me, but for which I feel a repugnance that almost amounts to horror, only to be left there a prey to it!
Why is it so necessary that I should return?—brought up here, my girl would be freer. Indeed, expecting you to join us, I had formed some plans of usefulness that have now vanished with my hopes of happiness.
In the bitterness of my heart, I could complain with reason, that I am left here dependant on a man, whose avidity to acquire a fortune has rendered him callous to every sentiment connected with social or affectionate emotions. With a brutal insensibility, he cannot help displaying the pleasure your determination to stay gives him, in spite of the effect it is visible it has had on me.
Till I can earn money, I shall endeavour to borrow some, for I want to avoid asking him continually for the sum necessary to maintain me. Do not mistake me, I have never been refused.—Yet I have gone half a dozen times to the house to ask for it, and come away without speaking——you must guess why—Besides, I wish toavoid hearing of the eternal projects to which you have sacrificed my peace not remembering—but I will be silent for ever.——
April 7.
April 7.
April 7.
April 7.
Here I am at H——, on the wing towards you, and I write now, only to tell you that you may expect me in the course of three or four days; for I shall not attempt to give vent to the different emotions which agitate my heart—You may term a feeling, which appears to me to be a degree of delicacy that naturally arises from sensibility, pride—Still I cannot indulge the very affectionate tenderness which glows in my bosom, without trembling, till I see by your eyes, that it is mutual.
I sit, lost in thought, looking at the sea—and tears rush into my eyes, when I find that I am cherishing any fond expectations. I have indeed been so unhappy this winter, I find it as difficult to acquire fresh hopes, as to regain tranquillity. Enough of this—lie still, foolish heart! But for the little girl, I could almost wish that it shouldcease to beat, to be no more alive to the anguish of disappointment.
Sweet little creature! I deprived myself of my only pleasure, when I weaned her about ten days ago. I am however glad I conquered my repugnance. It was necessary it should be done soon, and I did not wish to embitter the renewal of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off till we met. It was a painful exertion to me, and I thought it best to throw this inquietude with the rest, into the sack that I would fain throw over my shoulder. I wished to endure it alone, in short—Yet, after sending her to sleep in the next room for three or four nights, you cannot think with what joy I took her back again to sleep in my bosom!
I suppose I shall find you when I arrive, for I do not see any necessity for you coming to me. Pray inform Mr. ——, that I have his little friend with me. My wishing to oblige him, made me put myself to some inconvenience——and delay my departure; which was irksome to me, who have not quite as much philosophy, I would not for the world say indifference, as you. God bless you!
Yours truly* * * *
Yours truly* * * *
Yours truly* * * *
Yours truly
* * * *
LETTER XXXIX.
Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11.
Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11.
Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11.
Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11.
Here we are, my love, and mean to set out early in the morning; and if I can find you, I hope to dine with you to-morrow. I shall drive to ——’s hotel, where —— tells me you have been—and, if you have left it, I hope you will take care there to receive us.
I have brought with me Mr. ——’s little friend, and a girl whom I like to take care of our little darling—not on the way, for that fell to my share. But why do I write about trifles?—or any thing?—Are we not to meet soon?—What does your heart say!
Your’s truly* * * *
Your’s truly* * * *
Your’s truly* * * *
Your’s truly
* * * *
I have weaned my ——, and she is now eating way at the white bread.
LETTER XL.
London, Friday, May 22.
London, Friday, May 22.
London, Friday, May 22.
London, Friday, May 22.
I have just received your affectionate letter and am distressed to think that I have added to your embarrassments at this troublesome juncture, when the exertion of all the faculties of your mind appears to be necessary, to extricate you out of your pecuniary difficulties. I suppose it was something relative to the circumstance you have mentioned, which made —— request to see me to-day, toconverse about a matter of great importance. Be that as it may, his letter (such is the state of my spirits) inconceivably alarmed me, and rendered the last night as distressing as the two former had been.
I have laboured to calm my mind since you left me—Still I find that tranquillity is not to be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling so different from the resignation of despair!—I am however no longer angry with you—nor will I ever utter another complaint—there are arguments which convince the reason, whilst theycarry death to the heart—We have had too many cruel explanations, that not only cloud every future prospect; but embitter the remembrances which alone give life to affection.—Let the subject never be revived!
It seems to me that I have not only lost the hope, but the power of being happy.——Every emotion is now sharpened by anguish.—My soul has been shook, and my tone of feelings destroyed.—I have gone out—and sought for dissapation, if not amusement merely to fatigue still more, I find, my irritable nerves.—
My friend—my dear friend—examine yourself well—I am out of the question; for, alass! I am nothing—and discover what you wish to do—what will render you most comfortable—or, to be more explicit—whether you desire to live with me, or part for ever? When you can once ascertain it, tell me frankly, I conjure you!—for, believe me, I have very involuntarily interrupted your peace.
I shall expect you to dinner on Monday, and will endeavour to assume a cheerful face to greet you—at any rate I will avoid conversations, which only tend to harrass your feelings, because I am most affectionately yours.
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LETTER XLI.
Wednesday.
Wednesday.
Wednesday.
Wednesday.
I inclose you the letter, which you desired me to forward, and I am tempted very laconically to wish you a good morning—not because I am angry, or have nothing to say; but to keep down a wounded spirit.—I shall make every effort to calm my mind—yet a strong conviction seems to whirl round in the very centre of my brain, which, like the fiat of fate, emphatically assures me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart.
God bless you!
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—, Wednesday. Two o’Clock.
—, Wednesday. Two o’Clock.
—, Wednesday. Two o’Clock.
—, Wednesday. Two o’Clock.
We arrived here about an hour ago. I am extremely fatigued with the child, who would not rest quiet with any body but me, during the nightand now we are here in a comfortless, damp room, in a sort of tomb-like house. This however I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have finished this letter, (which I must do immediately, because the post goes out early), I shall sally forth, and enquire about a vessel and an inn.
I will not distress you by talking of the depression of my spirits, or the struggle I had to keep alive my dying heart.—It is even now too full to allow me to write with composure.—***, —dear ****,—am I always to be tossed about thus?—shall I never find an asylum to restcontentedin? How can you love to fly about continually—dropping down, as it were, in a new world—cold and strange!—every other day? Why do you not attach those tender emotions round the idea of home, which even now dim my eyes?—This alone is affection—every thing else is only humanity, electrified by sympathy.
I will write to you again to-morrow, when I know how long I am to be detained—and hope to get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours sincerely and affectionately
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—— is playing near me in high spirits. She was so pleased with the noise of the mail-horn, she has been continually imitating it.—Adieu!
Thursday.
Thursday.
Thursday.
Thursday.
A lady has just sent to offer to take me to —— —. I have then only a moment to exclaim against the vague manner in which people give information
— — — — —— — — — —— — — — —— — — — —
— — — — —— — — — —— — — — —— — — — —
— — — — —
— — — — —
— — — — —
— — — — —
But why talk of inconveniences, which are in fact trifling, when compared with the sinking of the heart I have felt! I did not intend to touch this painful string—God bless you!
Yours truly,* * * *
Yours truly,* * * *
Yours truly,* * * *
Yours truly,
* * * *
LETTER XLIV.
Friday June 12.
Friday June 12.
Friday June 12.
Friday June 12.
I have just received yours, dated the 9th, which I suppose was a mistake, for it could scarcely have loitered so long on the road. The general observations which apply to the state of your own mind, appear to me just, as far as they go; and I shall always consider it as one of the most serious misfortunes of my life, that I did not meet you, before satiety had rendered your senses so fastidious, as almost to close up every tender avenue of sentiment and affection that leads to your sympathetic heart. You have a heart, my friend, yet, hurried away by the impetuosity of inferior feelings, you have sought in vulgar excesses, for that gratification which only the heart can bestow.
The common run of men, I know, with strong health and gross appetites, must have variety to banishennui, because the imagination never leads its magic wand, to convert people into love, cementedby according reason.—Ah! my friend, you know not the ineffable delight, the exquisite pleasure, which arises from a unison of affection and desire, when the whole soul and senses are abandoned to a lively imagination, that renders every emotion delicate and rapturous. Yes; these are emotions over which satiety has no power, and the recollection of which, even disappointment cannot disenchant; but they do not exist without self-denial. These emotions, more or less strong, appear to me to be the distinctive characteristic of genius, the foundation of taste, and of that exquisite relish of the beauties of nature, of which the common herd of eaters and drinkers andchild-begetters, certainly have no idea. You will smile at an observation that has just occurred to me: I consider those minds as the most strong and original, whose imagination acts as the stimulus to their senses.
Well! you will ask, what is the result of all this reasoning? Why I cannot help thinking that it is possible for you, having great strength of mind, to return to nature, and regain a sanity of constitution, and purity of feeling—which would open your heart to me.——I would fain rest there!
Yet, convinced more than ever of the sincerity and tenderness of my attachment to you, the involuntaryhopes, which a determination to live has revived, are not sufficiently strong to dissipate the cloud, that despair has spread over futurity. I have looked at the sea, and at my child, hardly daring to own to myself the secret wish, that it might become our tomb; and that the heart, still so alive to anguish, might there be quieted by death. At this moment ten thousand complicated sentiments press for utterance, weigh on my heart, and obscure my sight.
Are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour to render that meeting happier than the last? Will you endeavour to restrain your caprices, in order to give vigour to affection, and to give play to the checked sentiments that nature intended should expand your heart? I cannot indeed, without agony, think of your bosom’s being continually contaminated; and bitter are the tears which exhaust my eyes, when I recollect why my child and I are forced to stay from the asylum, in which, after so many storms, I had hoped to rest, smiling at angry fate.—These are not common sorrows; nor can you perhaps conceive, how much active fortitude it requires to labour perpetually to blunt the shafts of disappointment.
Examine now yourself, and ascertain whether you can live in something like a settled stile. Let our confidence in future be unbounded; considerwhether you find it necessary to sacrifice me to what you term “the zest of life;” and, when you have once a clear view of your own motives, of your own incentive to action, do not deceive me!
The train of thoughts which the writing of this epistle awoke, makes me so wretched, that I must take a walk to rouse and calm my mind. But first, let me tell you, that, if you really wish to promote my happiness, you will endeavour to give me as much as you can of yourself. You have great mental energy; and your judgment seems to me so just, that it is only the dupe of your inclination in discussing one subject.
The post does not go out to-day. To-morrow I may write more tranquilly. I cannot say when the vessel will sail in which I have determined to depart.
Saturday Morning.
Saturday Morning.
Saturday Morning.
Saturday Morning.
Your second letter reached me about an hour ago. You were certainly wrong in supposing that I did not mention you with respect; though, without my being conscious of it, some sparks of resentment may have animated the gloom of despair—Yes; with less affection, I should havebeen more respectful. However the regard which I have for you, is so unequivocal to myself, I imagine that it must be sufficiently obvious to every body else. Besides, the only letter I intended for the public eye was to ——, and that I destroyed from delicacy before you saw them, because it was only written (of course warmly in your praise) to prevent any odium being thrown on you[11].
11. This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of suicide, and not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.
11. This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of suicide, and not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.
I am harrassed by your embarrassments, and shall certainly use all my efforts to make the business terminate to your satisfaction in which I am engaged.
My friend—my dearest friend—I feel my fate united to yours by the most sacred principles of my soul, and the yearns of—yes, I will say it—a true, unsophisticated heart.
Yours most truly* * * *
Yours most truly* * * *
Yours most truly* * * *
Yours most truly
* * * *
If the wind be fair, the captain talks of sailing on Monday; but I am afraid I shall be detained some days longer. At any rate, continue to write, (I want this support) till you are sure I am where I cannot expect a letter; and, if any should arriveafter my departure, a gentleman (not Mr. ——’s friend, I promise you) from whom I have received great civilities, will send them after me.
Do write by every occasion! I am anxious to hear how your affairs go on; and, still more, to be convinced that you are not separating yourself from us. For my little darling is calling papa, and adding her parrot word—Come, Come! And will you not come, and let us exert ourselves?—I shall recover all my energy, when I am convinced that my exertions will draw us more closely together. Once more adieu!
Sunday, June, 14.
Sunday, June, 14.
Sunday, June, 14.
Sunday, June, 14.
I rather expected to hear from you to-day—I wish you would not fail to write to me for a little time, because I am not quite well—Whether I have any good sleep or not, I wake in the morning in violent fits of trembling—and, in spite of all my efforts, the child—every thing—fatigues me, in which I seek for solace or amusement.
Mr. —— forced on me a letter to a physician of this place; it was fortunate, for I should otherwise have had some difficulty to obtain the necessary information. His wife is a pretty woman (I can admire, you know, a pretty woman, when I am alone) and he an intelligent and rather interesting man.—They have behaved to me with great hospitality; and poor —— was never so happy in her life, as amongst their young brood.
They took me in their carriage to —— and I ran over my favourite walks, with a vivacity that would have astonished you.—The town did not please me quite so well as formerly—It appeared so diminutive; and, when I found that many of the inhabitants had lived in the same houses ever since I left it, I could not help wondering how they could thus have vegetated, whilst I was running over a world of sorrow, snatching at pleasure, and throwing off prejudices. The place where I at present am, is much improved; but it is astonishing what strides aristocracy and fanaticism have made, since I resided in this country.
The wind does not appear inclined to change, so I am still forced to linger—When do you think that you shall be able to set out for France? I do not entirely like the aspect of your affairs, and still less your connections on the other side of thewater. Often do I sigh, when I think of your entanglements in business, and your extreme restlessness.—Even now I am almost afraid to ask you whether the pleasure of being free does not over-balance the pain you felt at parting with me? Sometimes I indulge the hope that you will feel me necessary to you—or why should we meet again?—but, the moment after, despair damps my rising spirits, aggravated by the emotions of tenderness, which ought to soften the cares of life.——God bless you!
Yours sincerely and affectionately* * * *
Yours sincerely and affectionately* * * *
Yours sincerely and affectionately* * * *
Yours sincerely and affectionately
* * * *
June 15.
June 15.
June 15.
June 15.
I want to know how you have settled with respect to ——. In short, be very particular in your account of all your affairs—let our confidence, my dear, be unbounded.—The last time we were separated, was a separation indeed on your part—Now you have acted more ingenuously, let the most affectionate interchange of sentiments fill up the aching void of disappointment. I almost dread that your plans will proveabortive—yet should the most unlucky turn send you home to us, convinced that a true friend is a treasure, I should not much mind having to struggle with the world again. Accuse me not of pride—yet sometimes, when nature has opened my heart to its author, I have wondered that you did not set a higher value on my heart.
Receive a kiss from ——, I was going to add, if you will not take one from me, and believe me yours
Sincerely,* * * *
Sincerely,* * * *
Sincerely,* * * *
Sincerely,
* * * *
The wind still continues in the same quarter.
Tuesday morning.
Tuesday morning.
Tuesday morning.
Tuesday morning.
The captain has just sent to inform me, that I must be on board in the course of a few hours.—I wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would have been a comfort to me to have received another letter from you—Should one arrive, it will be sent after me.
My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why the quitting England seems to be a fresh parting. Surely you will not forget me. A thousand weak forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my health renders me sensible to every thing. It is surprising, that in London, in a continual conflict of mind, I was still growing better—whilst here, bowed down by the despotic hand of fate, forced into resignation by despair, I seem to be fading away—perishing beneath a cruel blight, that withers up all my faculties.
The child is perfectly well. My hand seems unwilling to add adieu! I know not why this inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me. It is not a presentiment of ill. Yet having been so perpetually the sport of disappointment, having a heart that has been as it were a mark for misery, I dread to meet wretchedness in some new shape. Well, let it come—I care not!—what have I to dread, who have so little to hope for! God bless you—I am most affectionately and sincerely yours.
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LETTER XLVIII.
Wednesday Morning.
Wednesday Morning.
Wednesday Morning.
Wednesday Morning.
I was hurried on board yesterday about three o’clock, the wind having changed. But before evening it steered round to the old point; and here we are, in the midst of mists and waters, only taking advantage of the tide to advance a few miles.
You will scarcely suppose that I left the town with reluctance—yet it was even so—for I wished to receive another letter from you, and I felt pain at parting, for ever perhaps, from the amiable family, who had treated me with so much hospitality and kindness. They will probably send me your letter, if it arrives this morning; for here we are likely to remain, I am afraid to think how long.
The vessel is very commodious, and the captain a civil, open-hearted kind of man. There being no other passengers, I have the cabin to myself, which is pleasant; and I have brought a few books with me to beguile weariness; but Iseem inclined rather to employ the dead moments of suspence in writing some effusions, than in reading.
What are you about? How are your affairs going on? It may be a long time before you answer these questions. My dear friend, my heart sinks within me!—Why am I forced thus to struggle continually with my affections and feelings? Ah! why are those affections and feelings the source of so much misery, when they seem to have been given to vivify my heart, and extend my usefulness! But I must not dwell on this subject. Will you not endeavour to cherish all the affection you can for me? What am I saying?—Rather forget me if you can—if other gratifications are dearer to you. How is every remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment? What a world is this! They only seem happy, who never look beyond sensual or artificial enjoyments. Adieu.
—— begins to play with the cabin boy, and is as gay as a lark. I will labour to be tranquil; and am in every mood,
Your’s sincerely* * * *
Your’s sincerely* * * *
Your’s sincerely* * * *
Your’s sincerely
* * * *
LETTER XLIX.
Thursday.
Thursday.
Thursday.
Thursday.
Here I am still—and I have just received your letter of Monday by the pilot who promised to bring it to me, if we were detained, as expected, by the wind. It is indeed wearisome to be thus tossed about without going forward. I have a violent head-ache, yet I am obliged to take care of the child, who is a little tormented by her teeth, because —— is unable to do any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion of the ship, as we ride at anchor.
These are however trifling inconveniences, compared with anguish of mind—compared with the sinking of a broken heart. To tell you the truth I never in my life suffered so much from depression of spirits—from despair. I do not sleep—or, if I close my eyes, it is to have the most terrifying dreams, in which I often meet you with different casts of countenance.
I will not, my dear ——, torment you by dwelling on my sufferings—and will use all myefforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it—at present it is most painfully active. I find I am not equal to these continual struggles—yet your letter this morning has afforded me some comfort, and I will try to revive hope. One thing let me tell you, when we meet again—surely we are to meet!—it must be to part no more. I mean not to have seas between us, it is more than I can support.
The pilot is hurrying me; God bless you.
In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel, every thing here would disgust my senses, had I nothing else to think of—“When the mind’s free, the body’s delicate;”—mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles.
Your’s most truly* * * *
Your’s most truly* * * *
Your’s most truly* * * *
Your’s most truly
* * * *
Saturday.
Saturday.
Saturday.
Saturday.
This is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned by the wind, with every outward objectto disgust the senses, and unable to banish the remembrances that sadden my heart.
How am I altered by disappointment!—When going to ——, ten years ago, the elasticity of my mind was sufficient to ward off weariness, and the imagination still could dip her brush in the rainbow of fancy, and sketch futurity in smiling colours. Now I am going towards the North in search of sunbeams! Will any ever warm this desolated heart? All nature seems to frown, or rather mourn with me. Every thing is cold—cold as my expectations! Before I left the shore, tormented, as I now am, by these North-eastchillers, I could not help exclaiming—Give me, gracious Heaven! at least, genial weather, if I am never to meet the genial affection that still warms this agitated bosom—compelling life to linger there.
I am now going on shore with the captain, though the weather be rough, to seek for milk, &c. at a little village, and to take a walk, after which I hope to sleep—for, confined here, surrounded by disagreeable smells, I have lost the little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till thinking almost drives me to the brink of madness—only to the brink, for I never forget, even in the feverish slumbers I sometimes fall into, the misery I am labouring to blunt the sense of, by every exertion in my power.
Poor —— still continues sick, and —— grows weary when the weather will not allow her to remain on deck.
I hope this will be the last letter I shall write from England to you—are you not tired of this lingering adieu?
Yours truly* * * *
Yours truly* * * *
Yours truly* * * *
Yours truly
* * * *
Sunday Morning.
Sunday Morning.
Sunday Morning.
Sunday Morning.
The captain last night, after I had written my letter to you intended to be left at a little village, offered to go to —— to pass to-day. We had a troublesome sail, and now I must hurry on board again, for the wind has changed.
I half expected to find a letter from you here. Had you written one hap-hazard it would have been kind and considerate—you might have known, had you thought, that the wind would not permit me to depart. These are attentions more grateful to the heart than offers of service—Butwhy do I foolishly continue to look for them?
Adieu! adieu! My friend—your friendship is very cold—you see I am hurt. God bless you! I may perhaps be some time or other, independent in every sense of the word—Ah! there is but one sense of it of consequence. I will break or bend this weak heart—yet even now it is full.
Yours sincerely* * * *
Yours sincerely* * * *
Yours sincerely* * * *
Yours sincerely
* * * *
The child is well; I did not leave her on board.
June 27, Saturday.
June 27, Saturday.
June 27, Saturday.
June 27, Saturday.
I arrived in ——. I have now but a moment, before the post goes out, to inform you we have got here; though not without considerable difficulty, for we were set ashore in a boat above twenty miles below.
What I suffered in the vessel I will not now descant upon, nor mention the pleasure I received from the sight of the rocky coast. This morning however, walking to join the carriage that was to transport us to this place, I fell, without any previous warning, senseless on the rocks—and how I escaped with life I can scarcely guess. I was in a stupor for a quarter of an hour; the suffusion of blood at last restored me to my senses; the contusion is great, and my brain confused. The child is well.
Twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident, has sufficiently deranged me, and here I could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing warm to eat; the inns are mere stables, I must nevertheless go to bed. For God’s sake, let me hear from you immediately my friend! I am not well, and yet you see I cannot die.
Yours sincerely* * * *
Yours sincerely* * * *
Yours sincerely* * * *
Yours sincerely
* * * *
LETTER LIII.
June 29.
June 29.
June 29.
June 29.
I wrote to you by the last post, to inform you of my arrival; and I alluded to the extreme fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing to ——’s illness, and the roughness of the weather—I likewise mentioned to you my fall, the effects of which I still feel, though I do not think it will have any serious consequences.
—— —— will go with me, if I find it necessary to go to ——. The inns are here so bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his house. I am overwhelmed with civilities on all sides, and fatigued with the endeavours to amuse me, from which I cannot escape.
My friend—my friend, I am not well—a deadly weight of sorrow lies heavily on my heart. I am again tossed on the troubled billows of life; and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being buoyed up by the hopes that render them bearable.“How flat, dull, and unprofitable,” appears to me all the bustle into which I see people here so eagerly enter! I long every night to go to bed, to hide my melancholy face in my pillow; but there is a canker-worm in my bosom that never sleeps.
* * * *
* * * *
* * * *
* * * *
July 1.
July 1.
July 1.
July 1.
I labour in vain to calm my mind—my soul has been overwhelmed by sorrow and disappointment. Every thing fatigues me—this is a life that cannot last long. It is you who must determine with respect to futurity—and, when you have, I will act accordingly—I mean, we must either resolve to live together, or part for ever, I cannot bear these continual struggles—But I wish you to examine carefully your own heart and mind; and if you perceive the least chance of being happier without me than with me, or if your inclination leans capriciously to that side, do not dissemble; but tell me frankly that you will never see me more. I will then adopt the plan I mentioned to you—for we must either live together, or I will be entirely independent.
My heart is so oppressed, I cannot write with precision——You know however that what I so imperfectly express, are not the crude sentiments of the moment—You can only contribute to my comfort (it is the consolation I am in need of) by being with me—and, if the tenderest friendship is of any value, why will you not look to me for a degree of satisfaction that heartless affections cannot bestow?
Tell me then, will you determine to meet me at Basle?—I shall, I should imagine, be at —— before the close of August; and, after you settle your affairs at Paris, could we not meet there?
God bless you!Yours truly* * * *
God bless you!Yours truly* * * *
God bless you!Yours truly* * * *
God bless you!
Yours truly
* * * *
Poor —— —— has suffered during the journey with her teeth.
LETTER LV.
July 3.
July 3.
July 3.
July 3.
There was a gloominess diffused through your last letter, the impression of which still rests on my mind—though, recollecting how quickly you throw off the forcible feelings of the moment, I flatter myself it has long since given place to your usual cheerfulness.
Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness as I assure you) there is nothing I would not endure in the way of privation, rather than disturb your tranquillity.—If I am fated to be unhappy, I will labour to hide my sorrows in my bosom; and you shall always find me a faithful, affectionate friend.
I grow more and more attached to my little girl—and I cherish this affection without fear, because it must be a long time before it can become bitterness of soul.—She is an interesting creature. On ship-board, how often as I gazed at the sea, have I longed to bury my troubled bosom in theless troubled deep; asserting with Brutus, “that the virtue I had followed too far, was merely an empty name!” and nothing but the sight of her—her playful smiles, which seemed to cling and twine round my heart—could have stopped me.
What peculiar misery has fallen to my share! To act up to my principles, I have laid the strictest restraint on my very thoughts—yes; not to sully the delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in my imagination; and started with affright from every sensation, (I allude to ——) that stealing with balmy sweetness into my soul, led me to scent from afar the fragrance of reviving nature.
My friend, I have dearly paid for one conviction.—Love in some minds, is an affair of sentiment, arising from the same delicacy of perception (or taste) as renders them alive to the beauties of nature, poetry, &c. alive to the charms of those evanescent graces that are, as it were, impalpable—they must be felt, they cannot be described.
Love is a want of my heart. I have examined myself lately with more care than formerly, and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind—Aiming at tranquillity, I have almost destroyed all the energy of my soul—almost rooted outwhat renders it estimable—Yes, I have damped the enthusiasm of character, which converts the grossest materials into a fuel that imperceptibly feeds hopes, which aspire above common enjoyment. Despair, since the birth of my child, has rendered me stupid—soul and body seemed to be fading away before the withering touch of disappointment.
I am now endeavouring to recover myself—and such is the elasticity of my constitution, and the purity of the atmosphere here, that health unsought for, begins to reanimate my countenance.
I have the sincerest esteem and affection for you—but the desire of regaining peace, (do you understand me?) has made me forget the respect due to my own emotions—sacred emotions, that are the sure harbingers of the delights I was formed to enjoy—and shall enjoy, for nothing can extinguish the heavenly spark.
Still, when we meet again, I will not torment you, I promise you. I blush when I recollect my former conduct—and will not in future confound myself with the beings whom I feel to be my inferiors. I will listen to delicacy, or pride.