God bleſs you!
Yours ſincerely
* * * *
—, Wedneſday, Two o'Clock.
Wearrived here about an hour ago. I am extremely fatigued with the child, who would not reſt quiet with any body but me, during the night—and now we are here in a comfortleſs, damp room, in a ſort of a tomb-like houſe. This however I ſhall quicklyremedy, 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
* * * *
——— 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.
A ladyhas juſt ſent to offer to take me to ———. I have then only a moment to exclaim againſt the vaguemanner 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,
* * * *
Friday, June 12.
I havejuſt 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 vulgarexceſſes, 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 lends its magic wand, to convert appetite into love, cemented by 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 for the beauties of nature, of which the common herd of eaters and drinkers andchild-begeters, 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 involuntary hopes,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 ſtray 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; conſider whether 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 thewriting 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 yet ſay when the veſſel will ſail in which I have determined to depart.
Saturday Morning.
Your ſecond letter reached me about an hour ago. You were certainlywrong, 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 have been 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[133-A].
I am harraſſed by your embarraſſments, and ſhall certainly uſe all myefforts, 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
* * * *
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 arrive after my departure, a gentleman (not Mr. ——'s friend, I promiſe you) from whom Ihave 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. One more adieu!
Sunday, June 14.
I ratherexpected 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 whatſtrides 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 either ſide of the water. Often do I ſigh, when I think of your entanglements in buſineſs, and your extreme reſtleſſneſs of mind.—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 theemotions of tenderneſs, which ought to ſoften the cares of life.——God bleſs you!
Yours ſincerely and affectionately
* * * *
June 15.
I wantto 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 prove abortive—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
* * * *
The wind ſtill continues in the ſame quarter.
Tueſday Morning.
Thecaptain 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
* * * *
Wedneſday Morning.
I washurried on board yeſterday about three o'clock, the wind having changed. But before evening it veered round to the old point; and here we are, in the midſt of miſts and water, 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 itarrives 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 I ſeem 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 ſourceof 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,
Yours ſincerely
* * * *
Thurſday.
HereI 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 he 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 abroken heart.—To tell you the truth, I never ſuffered in my life 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 my efforts 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.
Yours moſt truly
* * * *
Saturday.
Thisis the fifth dreary day I have been impriſoned by the wind, with every outward object to 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 thecaptain, 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 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
* * * *
Sunday Morning.
Thecaptain 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 haphazard, 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 heartthan offers of ſervice—But why 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
* * * *
The child is well; I did not leave her on board.
June 27, Saturday.
I arrivedin ——— this afternoon, after vainly attempting to land at ——. 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 ſtupour 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
* * * *
June 29.
I wroteto you by the laſt poſt, to inform you of my arrival; and I believe 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 here are 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 alone 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.
I labourin 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 youraffairs at Paris, could we not meet there?
God bleſs you!
Yours truly
* * * *
Poor ——— has ſuffered during the journey with her teeth.
July 3.
Therewas 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, Iflatter 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 own 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 the leſs troubled deep; aſſerting with Brutus, "that the virtue I had followed toofar, 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 thebeauties 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 out what renders it eſtimable—Yes, I have damped that 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 tobe my inferiors.—I will liſten to delicacy, or pride.
July 4.
I hopeto hear from you by to-morrow's mail. My deareſt friend! I cannot tear my affections from you—and, though every remembrance ſtings me to the ſoul, I think of you, till I make allowance for the very defects of character, that have given ſuch a cruel ſtab to my peace.
Still however I am more alive, than you have ſeen me for a long, long time.I have a degree of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable to the benumbing ſtupour that, for the laſt year, has frozen up all my faculties.—Perhaps this change is more owing to returning health, than to the vigour of my reaſon—for, in ſpite of ſadneſs (and ſurely I have had my ſhare), the purity of this air, and the being continually out in it, for I ſleep in the country every night, has made an alteration in my appearance that really ſurpriſes me.—The roſy fingers of health already ſtreak my cheeks—and I have ſeen aphyſicallife in my eyes, after I have been climbing the rocks, that reſembled the fond, credulous hopes of youth.
With what a cruel ſigh have I recollected that I had forgotten to hope!—Reaſon, or rather experience, does not thus cruelly damp poor ———'s pleaſures; ſhe plays all day in the garden with ———'s children, and makes friends for herſelf.
Do not tell me, that you are happier without us—Will you not come to us in Switzerland? Ah, why do not you love us with more ſentiment?—why are you a creature of ſuch ſympathy, that the warmth of your feelings, or rather quickneſs of your ſenſes, hardens your heart? It is my miſfortune, that my imagination is perpetually ſhading your defects, and lending you charms, whilſt the groſſneſs of your ſenſes makes you (call me not vain) overlook graces in me, that only dignity of mind, and the ſenſibility of an expanded heart can give.—God bleſs you! Adieu.
July 7.
I couldnot help feeling extremely mortified laſt poſt, at not receiving a letter from you. My being at ——— was but a chance, and you might have hazarded it; and would a year ago.
I ſhall not however complain—There are miſfortunes ſo great, as to ſilence the uſual expreſſions of ſorrow—Believe me, there is ſuch a thing as a broken heart! There are characters whoſe very energy preys upon them; and who, ever inclined to cheriſh by reflection ſome paſſion, cannot reſt ſatiſfied with the common comforts oflife. I have endeavoured to fly from myſelf, and launched into all the diſſipation poſſible here, only to feel keener anguiſh, when alone with my child.
Still, could any thing pleaſe me—had not diſappointment cut me off from life, this romantic country, theſe fine evenings, would intereſt me.—My God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel alive only to painful ſenſations?—But it cannot—it ſhall not laſt long.
The poſt is again arrived; I have ſent to ſeek for letters, only to be wounded to the ſoul by a negative.—My brain ſeems on fire, I muſt go into the air.
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July 14.
I amnow on my journey to ———. I felt more at leaving my child, than I thought I ſhould—and, whilſt at night I imagined every inſtant that I heard the half-formed ſounds of her voice,—I aſked myſelf how I could think of parting with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpleſs?
Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale, that "God will temper the winds to the ſhorn lamb!" but how can I expect that ſhe will be ſhielded, when my naked boſom has had to brave continually the pitileſs ſtorm?Yes; I could add, with poor Lear—What is the war of elements to the pangs of diſappointed affection, and the horror ariſing from a diſcovery of a breach of confidence, that ſnaps every ſocial tie!
All is not right ſomewhere!—When you firſt knew me, I was not thus loſt. I could ſtill confide—for I opened my heart to you—of this only comfort you have deprived me, whilſt my happineſs, you tell me, was your firſt object. Strange want of judgment!
I will not complain; but, from the ſoundneſs of your underſtanding, I am convinced, if you give yourſelf leave to reflect, you will alſo feel, that your conduct to me, ſo far from being generous, has not been juſt.—I mean not to allude to factitious principles of morality; but to the ſimple baſis of allrectitude.—However I did not intend to argue—Your not writing is cruel—and my reaſon is perhaps diſturbed by conſtant wretchedneſs.
Poor ——— would fain have accompanied me, out of tenderneſs; for my fainting, or rather convulſion, when I landed, and my ſudden changes of countenance ſince, have alarmed her ſo much, that ſhe is perpetually afraid of ſome accident—But it would have injured the child this warm ſeaſon, as ſhe is cutting her teeth.
I hear not of your having written to me at ——. Very well! Act as you pleaſe—there is nothing I fear or care for! When I ſee whether I can, or cannot obtain the money I am come here about, I will not trouble you with letters to which you do not reply.
July 18.
I amhere in ——, ſeparated from my child—and here I muſt remain a month at leaſt, or I might as well never have come.
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I have begun ———— which will, I hope, diſcharge all my obligations of a pecuniary kind.—I am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my not having done it ſooner.
I ſhall make no further comments on your ſilence. God bleſs you!
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July 30.
I havejuſt received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of June; and you muſt have received ſeveral from me, informing you of my detention, and how much I was hurt by your ſilence.
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Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have ſuffered, God knows, ſince I left you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of ſickneſs of heart!—My mind however is at preſent painfully active, and the ſympathy Ifeel almoſt riſes to agony. But this is not a ſubject of complaint, it has afforded me pleaſure,—and reflected pleaſure is all I have to hope for—if a ſpark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn boſom.
I will try to write with a degree of compoſure. I wiſh for us to live together, becauſe I want you to acquire an habitual tenderneſs for my poor girl. I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or that ſhe ſhould only be protected by your ſenſe of duty. Next to preſerving her, my moſt earneſt wiſh is not to diſturb your peace. I have nothing to expect, and little to fear, in life—There are wounds that can never be healed—but they may be allowed to feſter in ſilence without wincing.
When we meet again, you ſhall beconvinced that I have more reſolution than you give me credit for. I will not torment you. If I am deſtined always to be diſappointed and unhappy, I will conceal the anguiſh I cannot diſſipate; and the tightened cord of life or reaſon will at laſt ſnap, and ſet me free.
Yes; I ſhall be happy—This heart is worthy of the bliſs its feelings anticipate—and I cannot even perſuade myſelf, wretched as they have made me, that my principles and ſentiments are not founded in nature and truth. But to have done with theſe ſubjects.
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I have been ſeriouſly employed in this way ſince I came to ——; yet I never was ſo much in the air.—I walk, I ride on horſeback—row, bathe, and evenſleep in the fields; my health is conſequently improved. The child, ——— informs me, is well. I long to be with her.
Write to me immediately—were I only to think of myſelf, I could wiſh you to return to me, poor, with the ſimplicity of character, part of which you ſeem lately to have loſt, that firſt attached to you.
Yours moſt affectionately
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I have been ſubſcribing other letters—ſo I mechanically did the ſame to yours.
Auguſt 5.
Employmentand exerciſe have been of great ſervice to me; and I have entirely recovered the ſtrength and activity I loſt during the time of my nurſing. I have ſeldom been in better health; and my mind, though trembling to the touch of anguiſh, is calmer—yet ſtill the ſame.—I have, it is true, enjoyed ſome tranquillity, and more happineſs here, than for a long—long time paſt.—(I ſay happineſs, for I can give no other appellation to the exquiſite delight this wild country and fine ſummer have afforded me.)—Still, on examining my heart, I find that it is ſoconſtituted, I cannot live without ſome particular affection—I am afraid not without a paſſion—and I feel the want of it more in ſociety, than in ſolitude—
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Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet occurs—my eyes fill with tears, and my trembling hand ſtops—you may then depend on my reſolution, when with you. If I am doomed to be unhappy, I will confine my anguiſh in my own boſom—tenderneſs, rather than paſſion, has made me ſometimes overlook delicacy—the ſame tenderneſs will in future reſtrain me. God bleſs you!
Auguſt 7.
Air, exerciſe, and bathing, have reſtored me to health, braced my muſcles, and covered my ribs, even whilſt I have recovered my former activity.—I cannot tell you that my mind is calm, though I have ſnatched ſome moments of exquiſite delight, wandering through the woods, and reſting on the rocks.
This ſtate of ſuſpenſe, my friend, is intolerable; we muſt determine on ſomething—and ſoon;—we muſt meet ſhortly, or part for ever. I am ſenſible that I acted fooliſhly—but I was wretched—when we were together—Expecting too much, I let the pleaſureI might have caught, ſlip from me. I cannot live with you—I ought not—if you form another attachment. But I promiſe you, mine ſhall not be intruded on you. Little reaſon have I to expect a ſhadow of happineſs, after the cruel diſappointments that have rent my heart; but that of my child ſeems to depend on our being together. Still I do not wiſh you to ſacrifice a chance of enjoyment for an uncertain good. I feel a conviction, that I can provide for her, and it ſhall be my object—if we are indeed to part to meet no more. Her affection muſt not be divided. She muſt be a comfort to me—if I am to have no other—and only know me as her ſupport.—I feel that I cannot endure the anguiſh of correſponding with you—if we are only to correſpond.—No; if you ſeek for happineſs elſewhere, my letters ſhall not interrupt your repoſe. I will be dead to you. I cannot expreſs to you what pain it gives me to write about an eternal ſeparation.—You muſt determine—examine yourſelf—But, for God's ſake! ſpare me the anxiety of uncertainty!—I may ſink under the trial; but I will not complain.
Adieu! If I had any thing more to ſay to you, it is all flown, and abſorbed by the moſt tormenting apprehenſions, yet I ſcarcely know what new form of miſery I have to dread.
I ought to beg your pardon for having ſometimes written peeviſhly; but you will impute it to affection, if you underſtand any thing of the heart of
Yours truly
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Auguſt 9.
Fiveof your letters have been ſent after me from ——. One, dated the 14th of July, was written in a ſtyle which I may have merited, but did not expect from you. However this is not a time to reply to it, except to aſſure you that you ſhall not be tormented with any more complaints. I am diſguſted with myſelf for having ſo long importuned you with my affection.——
My child is very well. We ſhall ſoon meet, to part no more, I hope—I mean, I and my girl.—I ſhall wait with ſomedegree of anxiety till I am informed how your affairs terminate.
Yours ſincerely
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Auguſt 26.
I arrivedhere laſt night, and with the moſt exquiſite delight, once more preſſed my babe to my heart. We ſhall part no more. You perhaps cannot conceive the pleaſure it gave me, to ſee her run about, and play alone. Her increaſing intelligence attaches me more and more to her. I have promiſed her that I will fulfil my duty to her; and nothingin future ſhall make me forget it. I will alſo exert myſelf to obtain an independence for her; but I will not be too anxious on this head.
I have already told you, that I have recovered my health. Vigour, and even vivacity of mind, have returned with a renovated conſtitution. As for peace, we will not talk of it. I was not made, perhaps, to enjoy the calm contentment ſo termed.—
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You tell me that my letters torture you; I will not deſcribe the effect yours have on me. I received three this morning, the laſt dated the 7th of this month. I mean not to give vent to the emotions they produced.—Certainly you are right; our minds are not congenial. I have lived in an ideal world, and foſtered ſentiments that you do not comprehend—or you would not treat me thus. I am not, I will not be, merely an object of compaſſion—a clog, however light, to teize you. Forget that I exiſt: I will never remind you. Something emphatical whiſpers me to put an end to theſe ſtruggles. Be free—I will not torment, when I cannot pleaſe. I can take care of my child; you need not continually tell me that our fortune is inſeparable,that you will try to cheriſh tenderneſsfor me. Do no violence to yourſelf! When we are ſeparated, our intereſt, ſince you give ſo much weight to pecuniary conſiderations, will be entirely divided. I want not protection without affection; and ſupport I need not, whilſt my facultiesare undiſturbed. I had a diſlike to living in England; but painful feelings muſt give way to ſuperior conſiderations. I may not be able to acquire the ſum neceſſary to maintain my child and ſelf elſewhere. It is too late to go to Switzerland. I ſhall not remain at ——, living expenſively. But be not alarmed! I ſhall not force myſelf on you any more.
Adieu! I am agitated—my whole frame is convulſed—my lips tremble, as if ſhook by cold, though fire ſeems to be circulating in my veins.
God bleſs you.
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September 6.
I receivedjuſt now your letter of the 20th. I had written you a letter laſt night, into which imperceptibly ſlipt ſome of my bitterneſs of ſoul. I will copy the part relative to buſineſs. I am not ſufficiently vain to imagine that I can, for more than a moment, cloud your enjoyment of life—to prevent even that, you had better never hear from me—and repoſe on the idea that I am happy.
Gracious God! It is impoſſible for me to ſtifle ſomething like reſentment, when I receive freſh proofs of your indifference. What I have ſuffered this laſt year, is not to be forgotten! I have not that happy ſubſtitute for wiſdom, inſenſibility—and the lively ſympathies which bind me to my fellow-creatures, are all of a painful kind.—They are the agonies of a broken heart—pleaſure and I have ſhaken hands.
I ſee here nothing but heaps of ruins, and only converſe with people immerſed in trade and ſenſuality.
I am weary of travelling—yet ſeem to have no home—no reſting place to look to.—I am ſtrangely caſt off.—How often, paſſing through the rocks, I have thought, "But for this child, I would lay my head on one of them, and never open my eyes again!" With a heart feelingly alive to all the affections of my nature—I have never met with one, ſofter than the ſtone that I would faintake for my laſt pillow. I once thought I had, but it was all a deluſion. I meet with families continually, who are bound together by affection or principle—and, when I am conſcious that I have fulfilled the duties of my ſtation, almoſt to a forgetfulneſs of myſelf, I am ready to demand, in a murmuring tone, of Heaven, "Why am I thus abandoned?"
You ſay now — — —
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I do not underſtand you. It is neceſſary for you to write more explicitly—and determine on ſome mode of conduct.—I cannot endure this ſuſpenſe—Decide—Do you fear to ſtrike another blow? We live together, or eternally part!—I ſhall not write to you again, till I receive an anſwer to this. I muſtcompoſe my tortured ſoul, before I write on indifferent ſubjects. — —
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I do not know whether I write intelligibly, for my head is diſturbed.—But this you ought to pardon—for it is with difficulty frequently that I make out what you mean to ſay—You write, I ſuppoſe, at Mr. ——'s after dinner, when your head is not the cleareſt—and as for your heart, if you have one, I ſee nothing like the dictates of affection, unleſs a glimpſe when you mention, the child.—Adieu!
September 25.
I havejuſt finiſhed a letter, to be given in charge to captain ———. In that I complained of your ſilence, and expreſſed my ſurpriſe that three mails ſhould have arrived without bringing a line for me. Since I cloſed it, I hear of another, and ſtill no letter.—I am labouring to write calmly—this ſilence is a refinement on cruelty. Had captain ——— remained a few days longer, I would have returned with him to England. What have I to do here? I have repeatedlywritten to you fully. Do you do the ſame—and quickly. Do not leave me in ſuſpenſe. I have not deſerved this of you. I cannot write, my mind is ſo diſtreſſed. Adieu!
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