FOOTNOTES:

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.

* * * *

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.

— — — — — — — — — — —

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!

* * * *

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.

— — — — — — — — — — —

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.

— — — — — — — — — — —

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

* * * * * * * * *

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—

— — — — — — — — — — —

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

* * * *

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

* * * *

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.—

— — — — — — — — — — —

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.

* * * *

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 — — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

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. — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

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!

* * * *

FOOTNOTES:[4-A]The child is in a subsequent letter called the "barrier girl," probably from a supposition that she owed her existence to this interview.editor.[7-A]This and the thirteen following letters appear to have been written during a separation of several months; the date, Paris.[27-A]Some further letters, written during the remainder of the week, in a similar strain to the preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the person to whom they were addressed.[47-A]The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now been born a considerable time.[50-A]She means, "the latter more than the former."editor.[58-A]This is the first of a series of letters written during a separation of many months, to which no cordial meeting ever succeeded. They were sent from Paris, and bear the address of London.[91-A]The person to whom the letters are addressed, was about this time at Ramsgate, on his return, as he professed, to Paris, when he was recalled, as it should seem, to London, by the further pressure of business now accumulated upon him.[100-A]This probably alludes to some expression of the person to whom the letters are addressed, in which he treated as common evils, things upon which the letter writer was disposed to bestow a different appellation.editor.[133-A]This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of suicide, and not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.

[4-A]The child is in a subsequent letter called the "barrier girl," probably from a supposition that she owed her existence to this interview.editor.

[4-A]The child is in a subsequent letter called the "barrier girl," probably from a supposition that she owed her existence to this interview.

editor.

[7-A]This and the thirteen following letters appear to have been written during a separation of several months; the date, Paris.

[27-A]Some further letters, written during the remainder of the week, in a similar strain to the preceding, appear to have been destroyed by the person to whom they were addressed.

[47-A]The child spoken of in some preceding letters, had now been born a considerable time.

[50-A]She means, "the latter more than the former."editor.

[50-A]She means, "the latter more than the former."

editor.

[58-A]This is the first of a series of letters written during a separation of many months, to which no cordial meeting ever succeeded. They were sent from Paris, and bear the address of London.

[91-A]The person to whom the letters are addressed, was about this time at Ramsgate, on his return, as he professed, to Paris, when he was recalled, as it should seem, to London, by the further pressure of business now accumulated upon him.

[100-A]This probably alludes to some expression of the person to whom the letters are addressed, in which he treated as common evils, things upon which the letter writer was disposed to bestow a different appellation.editor.

editor.

[133-A]This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of suicide, and not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.

Thefollowing Letters may poſſibly be found to contain the fineſt examples of the language of ſentiment and paſſion ever preſented to the world. They bear a ſtriking reſemblance to the celebrated romance of Werter, though the incidents to which they relate are of a very different caſt. Probably the readers to whom Werter is incapable of affording pleaſure, will receive no delight from the preſent publication. The editor apprehendsthat, in the judgment of thoſe beſt qualified to decide upon the compariſon, theſe Letters will be admitted to have the ſuperiority over the fiction of Goethe. They are the offſpring of a glowing imagination, and a heart penetrated with the paſſion it eſſays to deſcribe.

To the ſeries of letters conſtituting the principal article in theſe two volumes, are added various pieces, none of which, it is hoped, will be found diſcreditable to the talents of the author. The ſlight fragment of Letters on the Management of Infants, may be thought a trifle; but it ſeems to have ſome value, as preſenting to us with vividneſs the intention of the writer onthis important ſubject. The publication of a few ſelect Letters to Mr. Johnſon, appeared to be at once a juſt monument to the ſincerity of his friendſhip, and a valuable and intereſting ſpecimen of the mind of the writer. The Letter on the Preſent Character of the French Nation, the Extract of the Cave of Fancy, a Tale, and the Hints for the Second Part of the Rights of Woman, may, I believe, ſafely be left to ſpeak for themſelves. The Eſſay on Poetry and our Reliſh for the Beauties of Nature, appeared in the Monthly Magazine for April laſt, and is the only piece in this collection which has previouſly found its way to the preſs.

Two o'Clock.

Mydear love, after making my arrangements for our ſnug dinner to-day, I have been taken by ſtorm, and obliged to promiſe to dine, at an early hour, with the Miſs ——s, theonlyday they intend to paſs here. I ſhall however leave the key in the door, and hope to find you at my fire-ſide when I return, about eight o'clock. Will you not wait for poor Joan?—whom you will find better, andtill then think very affectionately of her.

Yours, truly,

* * * *

I am ſitting down to dinner; ſo do not ſend an anſwer.

Paſt Twelve o'Clock, Monday night.

[Auguſt.]

I obeyan emotion of my heart, which made me think of wiſhing thee, my love, good-night! before I go to reſt, with more tenderneſs than I can to-morrow, when writing a haſty line or two under Colonel ——'s eye. You can ſcarcely imagine with what pleaſure I anticipate the day, when we areto begin almoſt to live together; and you would ſmile to hear how many plans of employment I have in my head, now that I am confident my heart has found peace in your boſom.—Cheriſh me with that dignified tenderneſs, which I have only found in you; and your own dear girl will try to keep under a quickneſs of feeling, that has ſometimes given you pain—Yes, I will begood, that I may deſerve to be happy; and whilſt you love me, I cannot again fall into the miſerable ſtate, which rendered life a burthen almoſt too heavy to be borne.

But, good-night!—God bleſs you! Sterne ſays, that is equal to a kiſs—yet I would rather give you the kiſs into the bargain, glowing with gratitude to Heaven, and affection to you. I like the word affection, becauſe it ſignifiesſomething habitual; and we are ſoon to meet, to try whether we have mind enough to keep our hearts warm.

* * * *

I will be at the barrier a little after ten o'clock to-morrow[4-A].—Yours—

Wedneſday Morning.

Youhave often called me, dear girl, but you would now ſay good, did you know how very attentive I have been to the —— ever ſince I came to Paris. I am not however going to troubleyou with the account, becauſe I like to ſee your eyes praiſe me; and, Milton inſinuates, that, during ſuch recitals, there are interruptions, not ungrateful to the heart, when the honey that drops from the lips is not merely words.

Yet, I ſhall not (let me tell you before theſe people enter, to force me to huddle away my letter) be content with only a kiſs ofduty—youmuſtbe glad to ſee me—becauſe you are glad—or I will make love to theſhadeof Mirabeau, to whom my heart continually turned, whilſt I was talking with Madame ——, forcibly telling me, that it will ever have ſufficient warmth to love, whether I will or not, ſentiment, though I ſo highly reſpect principle.——

Not that I think Mirabeau utterly devoid of principles—Far from it—and, if I had not begun to form a new theory reſpecting men, I ſhould, in the vanity of my heart, haveimaginedthatIcould have made ſomething of his——it was compoſed of ſuch materials—Huſh! here they come—and love flies away in the twinkling of an eye, leaving a little bruſh of his wing on my pale cheeks.

I hope to ſee Dr. —— this morning; I am going to Mr. ——'s to meet him. ——, and ſome others, are invited to dine with us to-day; and to-morrow I am to ſpend the day with ——.

I ſhall probably not be able to return to —— to-morrow; but it is no matter, becauſe I muſt take a carriage, I have ſo many books, that I immediately want, to take with me.—On Friday then I ſhall expect you to dine with me—and, if you come a little before dinner, it is ſo long ſince I haveſeen you, you will not be ſcolded by yours affectionately

* * * *

Friday Morning [September.]

A man, whom a letter from Mr. —— previouſly announced, called here yeſterday for the payment of a draft; and, as he ſeemed diſappointed at not finding you at home, I ſent him to Mr. ——. I have ſince ſeen him, and he tells me that he has ſettled the buſineſs.

So much for buſineſs!—May I venture to talk a little longer about leſs weighty affairs?—How are you?—Ihave been following you all along the road this comfortleſs weather; for, when I am abſent from thoſe I love, my imagination is as lively, as if my ſenſes had never been gratified by their preſence—I was going to ſay careſſes—and why ſhould I not? I have found out that I have more mind than you, in one reſpect; becauſe I can, without any violent effort of reaſon, find food for love in the ſame object, much longer than you can.—The way to my ſenſes is through my heart; but, forgive me! I think there is ſometimes a ſhorter cut to yours.

With ninety-nine men out of a hundred, a very ſufficient daſh of folly is neceſſary to render a womanpiquante, a ſoft word for deſirable; and, beyond theſe caſual ebullitions of ſympathy, few look for enjoyment by foſtering apaſſion in their hearts. One reaſon, in ſhort, why I wiſh my whole ſex to become wiſer, is, that the fooliſh ones may not, by their pretty folly, rob thoſe whoſe ſenſibility keeps down their vanity, of the few roſes that afford them ſome ſolace in the thorny road of life.

I do not know how I fell into theſe reflections, excepting one thought produced it—that theſe continual ſeparations were neceſſary to warm your affection.—Of late, we are always ſeparating.—Crack!—crack!—and away you go.—This joke wears the ſallow caſt of thought; for, though I began to write cheerfully, ſome melancholy tears have found their way into my eyes, that linger there, whilſt a glow of tenderneſs at my heart whiſpers that you are one of the beſt creatures in the world.—Pardon then the vagaries of a mind,that has been almoſt "crazed by care," as well as "croſſed in hapleſs love," and bear with me alittlelonger!—When we are ſettled in the country together, more duties will open before me, and my heart, which now, trembling into peace, is agitated by every emotion that awakens the remembrance of old griefs, will learn to reſt on yours, with that dignity your character, not to talk of my own, demands.

Take care of yourſelf—and write ſoon to your own girl (you may add dear, if you pleaſe) who ſincerely loves you, and will try to convince you of it, by becoming happier.

* * * *

Sunday Night.

I havejuſt received your letter, and feel as if I could not go to bed tranquilly without ſaying a few words in reply—merely to tell you, that my mind is ſerene, and my heart affectionate.

Ever ſince you laſt ſaw me inclined to faint, I have felt ſome gentle twitches, which make me begin to think, that I am nouriſhing a creature who will ſoon be ſenſible of my care.—This thought has not only produced an overflowing of tenderneſs to you, but made me very attentive to calm my mind and take exerciſe, leſt I ſhould deſtroy an object, in whom we are to have a mutual intereſt, you know. Yeſterday—do not ſmile!—finding that I had hurt myſelfby lifting precipitately a large log of wood, I ſat down in an agony, till I felt thoſe ſaid twitches again.

Are you very buſy?

— — — — — — — — — — —

So you may reckon on its being finiſhed ſoon, though not before you come home, unleſs you are detained longer than I now allow myſelf to believe you will.—

Be that as it may, write to me, my beſt love, and bid me be patient—kindly—and the expreſſions of kindneſs will again beguile the time, as ſweetly as they have done to-night.—Tell me alſo over and over again, that your happineſs (and you deſerve to behappy!) is cloſely connected with mine, and I will try to diſſipate, as they riſe, the fumes of former diſcontent, that have too often clouded the ſunſhine, which you have endeavoured to diffuſe through my mind. God bleſs you! Take care of yourſelf, and remember with tenderneſs your affectionate

* * * *

I am going to reſt very happy, and you have made me ſo.—This is the kindeſt good-night I can utter.

Friday Morning.

I amglad to find that other people can be unreaſonable, as well as myſelf—for be it known to thee, that I anſwered thyfirſtletter, the very night it reached me (Sunday), though thou couldſt not receive it before Wedneſday, becauſe it was not ſent off till the next day.—There is a full, true, and particular account.—

Yet I am not angry with thee, my love, for I think that it is a proof of ſtupidity, and likewiſe of a milk-and-water affection, which comes to the ſame thing, when the temper is governed by a ſquare and compaſs.—There is nothing pictureſque in this ſtraight-lined equality, and the paſſions always give grace to the actions.

Recollection now makes my heart bound to thee; but, it is not to thy money-getting face, though I cannot be ſeriouſly diſpleaſed with the exertion which increaſes my eſteem, or rather is what I ſhould have expected from thy character.—No; I have thy honeſt countenance before me—Pop—relaxed by tenderneſs; a little—little wounded by my whims; and thy eyes gliſtening with ſympathy.—Thy lips then feel ſofter than ſoft—and I reſt my cheek on thine, forgetting all the world.—I have not left the hue of love out of the picture—the roſy glow; and fancy has ſpread it over my own cheeks, I believe, for I feel them burning, whilſt a delicious tear trembles in my eye, that would be all your own, if agrateful emotion directed to the Father of nature, who has made me thus alive to happineſs, did not give more warmth to the ſentiment it divides—I muſt pauſe a moment.

Need I tell you that I am tranquil after writing thus?—I do not know why, but I have more confidence in your affection, when abſent, than preſent; nay, I think that you muſt love me, for, in the ſincerity of my heart let me ſay it, I believe I deſerve your tenderneſs, becauſe I am true, and have a degree of ſenſibility that you can ſee and reliſh.

Yours ſincerely

* * * *

Sunday Morning [December 29.]

Youſeem to have taken up your abode at H——. Pray ſir! when do you think of coming home? or, to write very conſiderately, when will buſineſs permit you? I ſhall expect (as the country people ſay in England) that you will make apowerof money to indemnify me for your abſence.

— — — — — — — — — — —

Well! but, my love, to the old ſtory—am I to ſee you this week, or this month?—I do not know what you are about—for, as you did not tell me, I would not aſk Mr. ——, who is generally pretty communicative.

I long to ſee Mrs. ———; not to hear from you, ſo do not give yourſelf airs, but to get a letter from Mr. ——. And I am half angry with you for not informing me whether ſhe had brought one with her or not.—On this ſcore I will cork up ſome of the kind things that were ready to drop from my pen, which has never been dipt in gall when addreſſing you; or, will only ſuffer an exclamation—"The creature!" or a kind look, to eſcape me, when I paſs the ſlippers—which I could not remove from myſalledoor, though they are not the handſomeſt of their kind.

Be not too anxious to get money!—for nothing worth having is to be purchaſed. God bleſs you.

Yours affectionately

* * * *

Monday Night [December 30.]

Mybeſt love, your letter to-night was particularly grateful to my heart, depreſſed by the letters I received by ——, for he brought me ſeveral, and the parcel of books directed to Mr. ——— was for me. Mr. ———'s letter was long and very affectionate; but the account he gives me of his ownaffairs, though he obviouſly makes the beſt of them, has vexed me.

A melancholy letter from my ſiſter ——— has alſo harraſſed my mind—that from my brother would have given me ſincere pleaſure; but for — —

— — — — — — — — — — —

There is a ſpirit of independence in his letter, that will pleaſe you; and you ſhall ſee it, when we are once more over the fire together.—I think that you would hail him as a brother, with oneof your tender looks, when your heart not only gives a luſtre to your eye, but a dance of playfulneſs, that he would meet with a glow half made up of baſhfulneſs, and a deſire to pleaſe the——where ſhall I find a word to expreſs the relationſhip which ſubſiſts between us?—Shall I aſk the little twitcher?—But I have dropt half the ſentence that was to tell you how much he would be inclined to love the man loved by his ſiſter. I have been fancying myſelf ſitting between you, ever ſince I began to write, and my heart has leaped at the thought!—You ſee how I chat to you.

I did not receive your letter till I came home; and I did not expect it, for the poſt came in much later than uſual. It was a cordial to me—and I wanted one.

Mr. —— tells me that he has written again and again.—Love him a little!—It would be a kind of ſeparation, if you did not love thoſe I love.

There was ſo much conſiderate tenderneſs in your epiſtle to-night, that, if it has not made you dearer to me, it has made me forcibly feel how very dear you are to me, by charming away half my cares.

Yours affectionately

* * * *

Tueſday Morning [December 31.]

ThoughI have juſt ſent a letter off, yet, as captain —— offers to take one, I am not willing to let him go without a kind greeting, becauſe trifles of thisſort, without having any effect on my mind, damp my ſpirits:—and you, with all your ſtruggles to be manly, have ſome of this ſame ſenſibility.—Do not bid it begone, for I love to ſee it ſtriving to maſter your features; beſides, theſe kind of ſympathies are the life of affection: and why, in cultivating our underſtandings, ſhould we try to dry up theſe ſprings of pleaſure, which guſh out to give a freſhneſs to days browned by care!

The books ſent to me are ſuch as we may read together; ſo I ſhall not look into them till you return; when you ſhall read, whilſt I mend my ſtockings.

Yours truly

* * * *

Wedneſday Night [January 1.]

AsI have been, you tell me, three days without writing, I ought not to complain of two: yet, as I expected to receive a letter this afternoon, I am hurt; and why ſhould I, by concealing it, affect the heroiſm I do not feel?

I hate commerce. How differently muſt ———'s head and heart be organized from mine! You will tell me, that exertions are neceſſary: I am weary of them! The face of things, public and private, vexes me. The "peace" and clemency which ſeemed to be dawning a few days ago, diſappear again. "I am fallen," as Milton ſaid, "on evil days;" for I really believethat Europe will be in a ſtate of convulſion, during half a century at leaſt. Life is but a labour of patience: it is always rolling a great ſtone up a hill; for, before a perſon can find a reſting-place, imagining it is lodged, down it comes again, and all the work is to be done over anew!

Should I attempt to write any more, I could not change the ſtrain. My head aches, and my heart is heavy. The world appears an "unweeded garden," where "things rank and vile" flouriſh beſt.

If you do not return ſoon—or, which is no ſuch mighty matter, talk of it—I will throw your ſlippers out at window, and be off—nobody knows where.

* * * *

Finding that I was obſerved, I told the good women, the two Mrs. ——s, ſimply that I was with child: and let them ſtare! and ———, and ———, nay, all the world, may know it for aught I care!—Yet I wiſh to avoid ———'s coarſe jokes.

Conſidering the care and anxiety a woman muſt have about a child before it comes into the world, it ſeems to me, by anatural right, to belong to her. When men get immerſed in the world, they ſeem to loſe all ſenſations, excepting thoſe neceſſary to continue or produce life!—Are theſe the privileges of reaſon? Amongſt the feathered race, whilſt the hen keeps the young warm, her mate ſtays by to cheer her; but it is ſufficient for man to condeſcend to get a child, in order to claim it.—A man is a tyrant!

You may now tell me, that, if it were not for me, you would be laughing away with ſome honeſt fellows in L—n. The caſual exerciſe of ſocial ſympathy would not be ſufficient for me—I ſhould not think ſuch an heartleſs life worth preſerving.—It is neceſſary to be in good-humour with you, to be pleaſed with the world.

Thurſday Morning.

I wasvery low-ſpirited laſt night, ready to quarrel with your cheerful temper, which makes abſence eaſy to you.—And, why ſhould I mince the the matter? I was offended at your not even mentioning it.—I do not want to be loved like a goddeſs; but I wiſh to be neceſſary to you. God bleſs you[27-A]!

Monday Night.

I havejuſt received your kind and rational letter, and would fain hide my face, glowing with ſhame for my folly.—I would hide it in your boſom, if you would again open it to me, and neſtle cloſely till you bade my fluttering heart be ſtill, by ſaying that you forgave me. With eyes overflowing with tears, and in the humbleſt attitude, I intreat you.—Do not turn from me, for indeed I love you fondly, and have been very wretched, ſince the night I was ſo cruelly hurt by thinking that you had no confidence in me——

It is time for me to grow more reaſonable, a few more of theſe caprices of ſenſibility would deſtroy me. I have,in fact, been very much indiſpoſed for a few days paſt, and the notion that I was tormenting, or perhaps killing, a poor little animal, about whom I am grown anxious and tender, now I feel it alive, made me worſe. My bowels have been dreadfully diſordered, and every thing I ate or drank diſagreed with my ſtomach; ſtill I feel intimations of its exiſtence, though they have been fainter.

Do you think that the creature goes regularly to ſleep? I am ready to aſk as many queſtions as Voltaire's Man of Forty Crowns. Ah! do not continue to be angry with me! You perceive that I am already ſmiling through my tears—You have lightened my heart, and my frozen ſpirits are melting into playfulneſs.

Write the moment you receive this.I ſhall count the minutes. But drop not an angry word—I cannot now bear it. Yet, if you think I deſerve a ſcolding (it does not admit of a queſtion, I grant), wait till you come back—and then, if you are angry one day, I ſhall be ſure of ſeeing you the next.

——— did not write to you, I ſuppoſe, becauſe he talked of going to H——. Hearing that I was ill, he called very kindly on me, not dreaming that it was ſome words that he incautiouſly let fall, which rendered me ſo.

God bleſs you, my love; do not ſhut your heart againſt a return of tenderneſs; and, as I now in fancy cling to you, be more than ever my ſupport.—Feel but as affectionate when you read this letter, as I did writing it, and you will make happy, your

* * * *

Wedneſday Morning.

I willnever, if I am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to encourage "quick-coming fancies," when we are ſeparated. Yeſterday, my love, I could not open your letter for ſome time; and, though it was not half as ſevere as I merited, it threw me into ſuch a fit of trembling, as ſeriouſly alarmed me. I did not, as you may ſuppoſe, care for a little pain on my own account; but all the fears which I have had for a few days paſt, returned with freſh force. This morning I am better; will you not be glad to hear it? You perceive that ſorrow has almoſt made a child of me, and that I want to be ſoothed to peace.

One thing you miſtake in my character, and imagine that to be coldneſs which is juſt the contrary. For, when I am hurt by the perſon moſt dear to me, I muſt let out a whole torrent of emotions, in which tenderneſs would be uppermoſt, or ſtifle them altogether; and it appears to me almoſt a duty to ſtifle them, when I imaginethat I am treated with coldneſs.

I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own ——. I know the quickneſs of your feelings—and let me, in the ſincerity of my heart, aſſure you, there is nothing I would not ſuffer to make you happy. My own happineſs wholly depends on you—and, knowing you, when my reaſon is not clouded, I look forward to a rational proſpect of as much felicity as the earth affords—with a little daſh of rapture into the bargain, if you will look at me, when we meetagain, as you have ſometimes greeted, your humbled, yet moſt affectionate

* * * *

Thurſday Night.

I havebeen wiſhing the time away, my kind love, unable to reſt till I knew that my penitential letter had reached your hand—and this afternoon, when your tender epiſtle of Tueſday gave ſuch exquiſite pleaſure to your poor ſick girl, her heart ſmote her to think that you were ſtill to receive another cold one.—Burn it alſo, my ——; yet do not forget that even thoſe letters were full of love; and I ſhall ever recollect, that you did not wait to be mollified by my penitence, before you took me again to your heart.

I have been unwell, and would not, now I am recovering, take a journey, becauſe I have been ſeriouſly alarmed and angry with myſelf, dreading continually the fatal conſequence of my folly.—But, ſhould you think it right to remain at H—, I ſhall find ſome opportunity, in the courſe of a fortnight, or leſs perhaps, to come to you, and before then I ſhall be ſtrong again.—Yet do not be uneaſy! I am really better, and never took ſuch care of myſelf, as I have done ſince you reſtored my peace of mind. The girl is come to warm my bed—ſo I will tenderly ſay, good night! and write a line or two in the morning.

Morning.

I wiſhyou were here to walk with me this fine morning! yet your abſence ſhall not prevent me. I have ſtayed at home too much; though,when I was ſo dreadfully out of ſpirits, I was careleſs of every thing.

I will now ſally forth (you will go with me in my heart) and try whether this fine bracingairwill not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had, before I ſo inconſiderately gave way to the grief that deranged my bowels, and gave a turn to my whole ſyſtem.

Yours truly

* * * * * * * * *

Saturday Morning.

Thetwo or three letters, which I have written to you lately, my love, will ſerve as an anſwer to your explanatory one. I cannot but reſpect your motives and conduct. I always reſpected them; and was only hurt, by what ſeemed to me a want of confidence, and conſequently affection.—I thought alſo, that if you were obliged to ſtay three months at H—, I might as well have been with you.—Well! well, what ſignifies what I brooded over—Let us now be friends!

I ſhall probably receive a letter from you to-day, ſealing my pardon—and I will be careful not to torment you withmy querulous humours, at leaſt, till I ſee you again. Act as circumſtances direct, and I will not enquire when they will permit you to return, convinced that you will haſten to your * * * *, when you have attained (or loſt ſight of) the object of your journey.

What a picture have you ſketched of our fire-ſide! Yes, my love, my fancy was inſtantly at work, and I found my head on your ſhoulder, whilſt my eyes were fixed on the little creatures that were clinging about your knees. I did not abſolutely determine that there ſhould be ſix—if you have not ſet your heart on this round number.

I am going to dine with Mrs. ——. I have not been to viſit her ſince the firſt day ſhe came to Paris. I wiſh indeed to be out in the air as much as I can; for the exerciſe I have takentheſe two or three days paſt, has been of ſuch ſervice to me, that I hope ſhortly to tell you, that I am quite well. I have ſcarcely ſlept before laſt night, and then not much.—The two Mrs. ———s have been very anxious and tender.

Yours truly

* * * *

I need not deſire you to give the colonel a good bottle of wine.

Sunday Morning.

I wroteto you yeſterday, my ——; but, finding that the colonel is ſtill detained (for his paſſport was forgotten at the office yeſterday) I am not willing tolet ſo many days elapſe without your hearing from me, after having talked of illneſs and apprehenſions.

I cannot boaſt of being quite recovered, yet I am (I muſt uſe my Yorkſhire phraſe; for, when my heart is warm, pop come the expreſſions of childhood into my head) ſolightſome, that I think it will notgo badly with me.—And nothing ſhall be wanting on my part, I aſſure you; for I am urged on, not only by an enlivened affection for you, but by a new-born tenderneſs that plays cheerly round my dilating heart.

I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out in the air the greater part of yeſterday; and, if I get over this evening without a return of the fever that has tormented me, I ſhall talk no more of illneſs. I have promiſed thelittle creature, that its mother, who ought to cheriſh it, will not again plague it, and begged it to pardon me; and, ſince I could not hug either it or you to my breaſt, I have to my heart.—I am afraid to read over this prattle—but it is only for your eye.

I have been ſeriouſly vexed, to find that, whilſt you were harraſſed by impediments in your undertakings, I was giving you additional uneaſineſs.—If you can make any of your plans anſwer—it is well, I do not think alittlemoney inconvenient; but, ſhould they fail, we will ſtruggle cheerfully together—drawn cloſer by the pinching blaſts of poverty.

Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor girl, and write long letters; for I not only like them for being longer, but becauſe more heart ſteals into them;and I am happy to catch your heart whenever I can.

Yours ſincerely

* * * *

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