VOL. I.

PREFACE.

The following 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 apprehends that, 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 on this 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.

LETTERS.

LETTER I

Two o'Clock.

My dear 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, the only day 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, and till then think very affectionately of her.

Yours, truly,

* * * *

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

LETTER II

Paſt Twelve o'Clock, Monday night.

[Auguſt.]

I obey an 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 are to 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 be good, 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 ſignifies ſomething 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—

LETTER III

Wedneſday Morning.

You have 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 trouble you 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 of duty—you muſt be glad to ſee me—becauſe you are glad—or I will make love to the ſhade of 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 the ory reſpecting men, I ſhould, in the vanity of my heart, have imagined that I could 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 have ſeen you, you will not be ſcolded by yours affectionately

* * * *

LETTER IV [7-A].

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?—I have 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 woman piquante, a ſoft word for deſirable; and, beyond theſe caſual ebullitions of ſympathy, few look for enjoyment by foſtering a paſſion 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 a little longer!—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.

* * * *

LETTER V

Sunday Night.

I have juſt 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 myſelf by 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 be happy!) 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.

LETTER VI

Friday Morning.

I am glad to find that other people can be unreaſonable, as well as myſelf—for be it known to thee, that I anſwered thy firſt letter, 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 a grateful 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

* * * *

LETTER VII

Sunday Morning [December 29.]

You ſeem 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 a power of 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 my ſalle door, 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

* * * *

LETTER VIII

Monday Night [December 30.]

My beſt 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 own affairs, 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 one of 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

* * * *

LETTER IX

Tueſday Morning [December 31.]

Though I 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 this ſort, 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

* * * *

LETTER X

Wedneſday Night [January 1.]

As I 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 believe that 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 a natural 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 was very 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]!

LETTER XI

Monday Night.

I have juſt 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

* * * *

LETTER XII

Wedneſday Morning.

I will never, 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 cha racter, 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 imagine that 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 meet again, as you have ſometimes greeted, your humbled, yet moſt affectionate

* * * *

LETTER XIII

Thurſday Night.

I have been 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 wiſh you 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 bracing air will 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

* * * * * * * * *

LETTER XIV

Saturday Morning.

The two 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 with my 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 taken theſe 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.

LETTER XV

Sunday Morning.

I wrote to you yeſterday, my ——; but, finding that the colonel is ſtill detained (for his paſſport was forgotten at the office yeſterday) I am not willing to let 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) ſo lightſome, that I think it will not go 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 the little 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 a little money 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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LETTER XVI

Tueſday Morning.

I ſeize this opportunity to inform you, that I am to ſet out on Thurſday with Mr. ———, and hope to tell you ſoon (on your lips) how glad I ſhall be to ſee you. I have juſt got my paſſport, ſo I do not foreſee any impediment to my reaching H——, to bid you good-night next Friday in my new apartment—where I am to meet you and love, in ſpite of care, to ſmile me to ſleep—for I have not caught much reſt ſince we parted.

You have, by your tenderneſs and worth, twiſted yourſelf more artfully round my heart, than I ſuppoſed poſſible.—Let me indulge the thought, that I have thrown out ſome tendrils to cling to the elm by which I wiſh to be ſupported.—This is talking a new language for me!—But, knowing that I am not a paraſite-plant, I am willing to receive the proofs of affection, that every pulſe replies to, when I think of being once more in the ſame houſe with you.—God bleſs you!

Yours truly

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LETTER XVII

Wedneſday Morning.

I only ſend this as an avant-coureur, without jack-boots, to tell you, that I am again on the wing, and hope to be with you a few hours after you receive it. I ſhall find you well, and compoſed, I am ſure; or, more properly ſpeaking, cheerful.—What is the reaſon that my ſpirits are not as manageable as yours? Yet, now I think of it, I will not allow that your temper is even, though I have promiſed myſelf, in order to obtain my own forgiveneſs, that I will not ruffle it for a long, long time—I am afraid to ſay never.

Farewell for a moment!—Do not forget that I am driving towards you in perſon! My mind, unfettered, has flown to you long ſince, or rather has never left you.

I am well, and have no apprehenſion that I ſhall find the journey too fatiguing, when I follow the lead of my heart.—With my face turned to H— my ſpirits will not ſink—and my mind has always hitherto enabled my body to do whatever I wiſhed.

Yours affectionately

* * * *

LETTER XVIII

H—, Thurſday Morning, March 12.

We are ſuch creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot ſay I was ſorry, childiſhly ſo, for your going, when I knew that you were to ſtay ſuch a ſhort time, and I had a plan of employment; yet I could not ſleep.—I turned to your ſide of the bed, and tried to make the moſt of the comfort of the pillow, which you uſed to tell me I was churliſh about; but all would not do.—I took nevertheleſs my walk before breakfaſt, though the weather was not very inviting—and here I am, wiſhing you a finer day, and ſeeing you peep over my ſhoulder, as I write, with one of your kindeſt looks—when your eyes gliſten, and a ſuffuſion creeps over your relaxing features.

But I do not mean to dally with you this morning—So God bleſs you! Take care of yourſelf—and ſometimes fold to your heart your affectionate

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LETTER XIX

DO not call me ſtupid, for leaving on the table the little bit of paper I was to incloſe.—This comes of being in love at the fag-end of a letter of buſineſs.—You know, you ſay, they will not chime together.—I had got you by the fire-ſide, with the gigot ſmoking on the board, to lard your poor bare ribs—and behold, I cloſed my letter with out taking the paper up, that was directly under my eyes!—What had I got in them to render me ſo blind?—I give you leave to anſwer the queſtion, if you will not ſcold; for I am

Yours moſt affectionately

* * * *

LETTER XX

Sunday, Auguſt 17.

— — — — — — — — — — —

I have promiſed ——— to go with him to his country-houſe, where he is now permitted to dine—I, and the little darling, to be ſure [47-A]—whom I cannot help kiſſing with more fondneſs, ſince you left us. I think I ſhall enjoy the fine proſpect, and that it will rather enliven, than ſatiate my imagination.

I have called on Mrs. ———. She has the manners of a gentlewoman, with a daſh of the eaſy French coquetry, which renders her piquante.—But Monſieur her huſband, whom nature never dreamed of caſting in either the mould of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward figure in the foreground of the picture.

The H——s are very ugly, without doubt—and the houſe ſmelt of commerce from top to toe—ſo that his abortive attempt to diſplay taſte, only proved it to be one of the things not to be bought with gold. I was in a room a moment alone, and my attention was attracted by the pendule—A nymph was offering up her vows before a ſmoking altar, to a fat-bottomed Cupid (ſaving your preſence), who was kicking his heels in the air.—Ah! kick on, thought I; for the demon of traffic will ever fright away the loves and graces, that ſtreak with the roſy beams of infant fancy the ſombre day of life—whilſt the imagination, not allowing us to ſee things as they are, enables us to catch a haſty draught of the running ſtream of delight, the thirſt for which ſeems to be given only to tantalize us.

But I am philoſophizing; nay, perhaps you will call me ſevere, and bid me let the ſquare-headed money-getters alone.—Peace to them! though none of the ſocial ſprites (and there are not a few of different deſcriptions, who ſport about the various inlets to my heart) gave me a twitch to reſtrain my pen.

I have been writing on, expecting poor ——— to come; for, when I began, I merely thought of buſineſs; and, as this is the idea that moſt naturally aſſociates with your image, I wonder I ſtumbled on any other.

Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is ſcarcely worth having, even with a gigot every day, and a pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to cultivate my judgment, if you will permit me to keep alive the ſentiments in your heart, which may be termed romantic, becauſe, the offſpring of the ſenſes and the imagination, they reſemble the mother more than the father [50-A], when they produce the ſuffuſion I admire.—In ſpite of icy age, I hope ſtill to ſee it, if you have not determined only to eat and drink, and be ſtupidly uſeful to the ſtupid—

Yours

* * * *

LETTER XXI

H—, Auguſt 19, Tueſday.

I received both your letters to-day—I had reckoned on hearing from you yeſterday, therefore was diſappointed, though I imputed your ſilence to the right cauſe. I intended anſwering your kind letter immediately, that you might have felt the pleaſure it gave me; but ——— came in, and ſome other things interrupted me; ſo that the fine vapour has evaporated—yet, leaving a ſweet ſcent behind, I have only to tell you, what is ſufficiently obvious, that the earneſt deſire I have ſhown to keep my place, or gain more ground in your heart, is a ſure proof how neceſſary your affection is to my happineſs.—Still I do not think it falſe delicacy, or fooliſh pride, to wiſh that your attention to my happineſs ſhould ariſe as much from love, which is always rather a ſelfiſh paſſion, as reaſon—that is, I want you to promote my felicity, by ſeeking your own.—For, whatever pleaſure it may give me to diſcover your generoſity of ſoul, I would not be dependent for your affection on the very quality I moſt admire. No; there are qualities in your heart, which demand my affection; but, unleſs the attachment appears to me clearly mutual, I ſhall labour only to eſteem your character, inſtead of cheriſhing a tenderneſs for your perſon.

I write in a hurry, becauſe the little one, who has been ſleeping a long time, begins to call for me. Poor thing! when I am ſad, I lament that all my affections grow on me, till they become too ſtrong for my peace, though they all afford me ſnatches of exquiſite enjoyment—This for our little girl was at firſt very reaſonable—more the effect of reaſon, a ſenſe of duty, than feeling—now, ſhe has got into my heart and imagination, and when I walk out without her, her little figure is ever dancing before me.

You too have ſomehow clung round my heart—I found I could not eat my dinner in the great room—and, when I took up the large knife to carve for myſelf, tears ruſhed into my eyes.—Do not however ſuppoſe that I am melancholy—for, when you are from me, I not only wonder how I can find fault with you—but how I can doubt your affection.

I will not mix any comments on the incloſed (it rouſed my indignation) with the effuſion of tenderneſs, with which I aſſure you, that you are the friend of my boſom, and the prop of my heart.

* * * *

LETTER XXII

H—, Auguſt 20.

I want to know what ſteps you have taken reſpecting ——. Knavery always rouſes my indignation—I ſhould be gratified to hear that the law had chaſtiſed ——— ſeverely; but I do not wiſh you to ſee him, becauſe the buſineſs does not now admit of peaceful diſcuſſion, and I do not exactly know how you would expreſs your contempt.

Pray aſk ſome queſtions about Tallien—I am ſtill pleaſed with the dignity of his conduct.—The other day, in the cauſe of humanity, he made uſe of a degree of addreſs, which I admire —and mean to point out to you, as one of the few inſtances of addreſs which do credit to the abilities of the man, without taking away from that confidence in his openneſs of heart, which is the true baſis of both public and private friendſhip.

Do not ſuppoſe that I mean to allude to a little reſerve of temper in you, of which I have ſometimes complained! You have been uſed to a cunning woman, and you almoſt look for cunning—Nay, in managing my happineſs, you now and then wounded my ſenſibility, concealing yourſelf, till honeſt ſympathy, giving you to me without diſguiſe, lets me look into a heart, which my half-broken one wiſhes to creep into, to be revived and cheriſhed.——You have frankneſs of heart, but not often exactly that over flowing (épanchement de cœur), which becoming almoſt childiſh, appears a weakneſs only to the weak.

But I have left poor Tallien. I wanted you to enquire likewiſe whether, as a member declared in the convention, Robeſpierre really maintained a number of miſtreſſes.—Should it prove ſo, I ſuſpect that they rather flattered his vanity than his ſenſes.

Here is a chatting, deſultory epiſtle! But do not ſuppoſe that I mean to cloſe it without mentioning the little damſel—who has been almoſt ſpringing out of my arm—ſhe certainly looks very like you—but I do not love her the leſs for that, whether I am angry or pleaſed with you.—

Yours affectionately

* * * *

LETTER XXIII [58-A].

September 22.

I have juſt written two letters, that are going by other conveyances, and which I reckon on your receiving long before this. I therefore merely write, becauſe I know I ſhould be diſappointed at ſeeing any one who had left you, if you did not ſend a letter, were it ever ſo ſhort, to tell me why you did not write a longer—and you will want to be told, over and over again, that our little Hercules is quite recovered.

Beſides looking at me, there are three other things, which delight her—to ride in a coach, to look at a ſcarlet waiſtcoat, and hear loud muſic—yeſterday, at the fête, ſhe enjoyed the two latter; but, to honour J. J. Rouſſeau, I intend to give her a ſaſh, the firſt ſhe has ever had round her—and why not?—for I have always been half in love with him.

Well, this you will ſay is trifling—ſhall I talk about alum or ſoap? There is nothing pictureſque in your preſent purſuits; my imagination then rather chuſes to ramble back to the barrier with you, or to ſee you coming to meet me, and my baſket of grapes.—With what pleaſure do I recollect your looks and words, when I have been ſitting on the window, regarding the waving corn!

Believe me, ſage ſir, you have not ſufficient reſpect for the imagination—I could prove to you in a trice that it is the mother of ſentiment, the great diſtinction of our nature, the only purifier of the paſſions—animals have a portion of reaſon, and equal, if not more exquiſite, ſenſes; but no trace of imagination, or her offſpring taſte, appears in any of their actions. The impulſe of the ſenſes, paſſions, if you will, and the concluſions of reaſon, draw men together; but the imagination is the true fire, ſtolen from heaven, to animate this cold creature of clay, producing all thoſe fine ſympathies that lead to rapture, rendering men ſocial by expanding their hearts, inſtead of leaving them leiſure to calculate how many comforts ſociety affords.

If you call theſe obſervations romantic, a phraſe in this place which would be tantamount to nonſenſical, I ſhall be apt to retort, that you are embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of life—Bring me then back your barrier-face, or you ſhall have nothing to ſay to my barrier-girl; and I ſhall fly from you, to cheriſh the remembrances that will ever be dear to me; for I am yours truly

* * * *

LETTER XXIV

Evening, Sept. 23.

I have been playing and laughing with the little girl ſo long, that I cannot take up my pen to addreſs you without emotion. Preſſing her to my boſom, ſhe looked ſo like you (entre nous, your beſt looks, for I do not admire your commercial face) every nerve ſeemed to vibrate to the touch, and I began to think that there was ſomething in the aſſertion of man and wife being one—for you ſeemed to pervade my whole frame, quickening the beat of my heart, and lending me the ſympathetic tears you excited.

Have I any thing more to ſay to you? No; not for the preſent—the reſt is all flown away; and, indulging tenderneſs for you, I cannot now complain of ſome people here, who have ruffled my temper for two or three days paſt.

Morning.

Yeſterday B—— ſent to me for my packet of letters. He called on me before; and I like him better than I did—that is, I have the ſame opinion of his underſtanding, but I think with you, he has more tenderneſs and real delicacy of feeling with reſpect to women, than are commonly to be met with. His manner too of ſpeaking of his little girl, about the age of mine, intereſted me. I gave him a letter for my ſiſter, and requeſted him to ſee her.

I have been interrupted. Mr. —— I ſuppoſe will write about buſineſs. Public affairs I do not deſcant on, except to tell you that they write now with great freedom and truth, and this liberty of the preſs will overthrow the Jacobins, I plainly perceive.

I hope you take care of your health. I have got a habit of reſtleſſneſs at night, which ariſes, I believe, from activity of mind; for, when I am alone, that is, not near one to whom I can open my heart, I ſink into reveries and trains of thinking, which agitate and fatigue me.

This is my third letter; when am I to hear from you? I need not tell you, I ſuppoſe, that I am now writing with ſomebody in the room with me, and —— is waiting to carry this to Mr. ——'s. I will then kiſs the girl for you, and bid you adieu.

I deſired you, in one of my other letters, to bring back to me your barrier-face—or that you ſhould not be loved by my barrier-girl. I know that you will love her more and more, for ſhe is a little affectionate, intelligent creature, with as much vivacity, I ſhould think, as you could wiſh for.

I was going to tell you of two or three things which diſpleaſe me here; but they are not of ſufficient conſequence to interrupt pleaſing ſenſations. I have received a letter from Mr. ——. I want you to bring —— with you. Madame S—— is by me, reading a German tranſlation of your letters—ſhe deſires me to give her love to you, on account of what you ſay of the negroes.

Yours moſt affectionately,

* * * *

LETTER XXV

Paris, Sept. 28.

I have written to you three or four letters; but different cauſes have prevented my ſending them by the perſons who promiſed to take or forward them. The incloſed is one I wrote to go by B——; yet, finding that he will not arrive, before I hope, and believe, you will have ſet out on your return, I incloſe it to you, and ſhall give it in charge to ——, as Mr. —— is detained, to whom I alſo gave a letter.

I cannot help being anxious to hear from you; but I ſhall not harraſs you with accounts of inquietudes, or of cares that ariſe from peculiar circumſtances.—I have had ſo many little plagues here, that I have almoſt lamented that I left H——. ——, who is at beſt a moſt helpleſs creature, is now, on account of her pregnancy, more trouble than uſe to me, ſo that I ſtill continue to be almoſt a ſlave to the child.—She indeed rewards me, for ſhe is a ſweet little creature; for, ſetting aſide a mother's fondneſs (which, by the bye, is growing on me, her little intelligent ſmiles ſinking into my heart), ſhe has an aſtoniſhing degree of ſenſibility and obſervation. The other day by B——'s child, a fine one, ſhe looked like a little ſprite.—She is all life and motion, and her eyes are not the eyes of a fool—I will ſwear.

I ſlept at St. Germain's, in the very room (if you have not forgot) in which you preſſed me very tenderly to your heart.—I did not forget to fold my darling to mine, with ſenſations that are almoſt too ſacred to be alluded to.

Adieu, my love! Take care of yourſelf, if you wiſh to be the protector of your child, and the comfort of her mother.

I have received, for you, letters from ————. I want to hear how that affair finiſhes, though I do not know whether I have moſt contempt for his folly or knavery.

Your own

* * * *

LETTER XXVI

October 1.

It is a heartleſs taſk to write letters, without knowing whether they will ever reach you.—I have given two to ——, who has been a-going, a-going, every day, for a week paſt; and three others, which were written in a low-ſpirited ſtrain, a little querulous or ſo, I have not been able to forward by the opportunities that were mentioned to me. Tant mieux! you will ſay, and I will not ſay nay; for I ſhould be ſorry that the contents of a letter, when you are ſo far away, ſhould damp the pleaſure that the ſight of it would afford—judging of your feelings by my own. I juſt now ſtumbled on one of the kind letters, which you wrote during your laſt abſence. You are then a dear affectionate creature, and I will not plague you. The letter which you chance to receive, when the abſence is ſo long, ought to bring only tears of tenderneſs, without any bitter alloy, into your eyes.

After your return I hope indeed, that you will not be ſo immerſed in buſineſs, as during the laſt three or four months paſt—for even money, taking into the account all the future comforts it is to procure, may be gained at too dear a rate, if painful impreſſions are left on the mind.—Theſe impreſſions were much more lively, ſoon after you went away, than at preſent—for a thouſand tender recollections efface the melancholy traces they left on my mind —and every emotion is on the ſame ſide as my reaſon, which always was on yours.—Separated, it would be almoſt impious to dwell on real or imaginary imperfections of character.—I feel that I love you; and, if I cannot be happy with you, I will ſeek it no where elſe.

My little darling grows every day more dear to me—and ſhe often has a kiſs, when we are alone together, which I give her for you, with all my heart.

I have been interrupted—and muſt ſend off my letter. The liberty of the preſs will produce a great effect here—the cry of blood will not be vain!—Some more monſters will periſh—and the Jacobins are conquered.—Yet I almoſt fear the laſt ſlap of the tail of the beaſt.

I have had ſeveral trifling teazing inconveniencies here, which I ſhall not now trouble you with a detail of.—I am ſending —— back; her pregnancy rendered her uſeleſs. The girl I have got has more vivacity, which is better for the child.

I long to hear from you.—Bring a copy of —— and —— with you.

—— is ſtill here: he is a loſt man.—He really loves his wife, and is anxious about his children; but his indiſcriminate hoſpitality and ſocial feelings have given him an inveterate habit of drinking, that deſtroys his health, as well as renders his perſon diſguſting.—If his wife had more ſenſe, or delicacy, ſhe might reſtrain him: as it is, nothing will ſave him.

Yours moſt truly and affectionately

* * * *

LETTER XXVII

October 26.

My dear love, I began to wiſh ſo earneſtly to hear from you, that the ſight of your letters occaſioned ſuch pleaſurable emotions, I was obliged to throw them aſide till the little girl and I were alone together; and this ſaid little girl, our darling, is become a moſt intelligent little creature, and as gay as a lark, and that in the morning too, which I do not find quite ſo convenient. I once told you, that the ſenſations before ſhe was born, and when ſhe is ſucking, were pleaſant; but they do not deſerve to be compared to the emotions I feel, when ſhe ſtops to ſmile upon me, or laughs outright on meeting me unexpectedly in the ſtreet, or after a ſhort abſence. She has now the advantage of having two good nurſes, and I am at preſent able to diſcharge my duty to her, without being the ſlave of it.

I have therefore employed and amuſed myſelf ſince I got rid of ——, and am making a progreſs in the language amongſt other things. I have alſo made ſome new acquaintance. I have almoſt charmed a judge of the tribunal, R——, who, though I ſhould not have thought it poſſible, has humanity, if not beaucoup d'eſprit. But let me tell you, if you do not make haſte back, I ſhall be half in love with the author of the Marſeillaiſe, who is a handſome man, a little too broad-faced or ſo, and plays ſweetly on the violin.

What do you ſay to this threat?—why, entre nous, I like to give way to a ſprightly vein, when writing to you, that is, when I am pleaſed with you. "The devil," you know, is proverbially ſaid to be "in a good humour, when he is pleaſed." Will you not then be a good boy, and come back quickly to play with your girls? but I ſhall not allow you to love the new-comer beſt.

— — — — — — — — — — —

My heart longs for your return, my love, and only looks for, and ſeeks happineſs with you; yet do not imagine that I childiſhly wiſh you to come back, before you have arranged things in ſuch a manner, that it will not be neceſſary for you to leave us ſoon again; or to make exertions which injure your conſtitution.

Yours moſt truly and tenderly

* * * *

P.S. "You would oblige me by delivering the incloſed to Mr. ——, and pray call for an anſwer.—It is for a perſon uncomfortably ſituated.

LETTER XXVIII

Dec. 26.

I have been, my love, for ſome days tormented by fears, that I would not allow to aſſume a form—I had been expecting you daily—and I heard that many veſſels had been driven on ſhore during the late gale.—Well, I now ſee your letter—and find that you are ſafe; I will not regret then that your exertions have hitherto been ſo unavailing.

— — — — — — — — — — —

Be that as it may, return to me when you have arranged the other matters, which —— has been crowding on you. I want to be ſure that you are ſafe—and not ſeparated from me by a ſea that muſt be paſſed. For, feeling that I am happier than I ever was, do you wonder at my ſometimes dreading that fate has not done perſecuting me? Come to me, my deareſt friend, huſband, father of my child!—All theſe fond ties glow at my heart at this moment, and dim my eyes.—With you an independence is deſirable; and it is always within our reach, if affluence eſcapes us—without you the world again appears empty to me. But I am recurring to ſome of the melancholy thoughts that have flitted acroſs my mind for ſome days paſt, and haunted my dreams.

My little darling is indeed a ſweet child; and I am ſorry that you are not here, to ſee her little mind unfold itſelf. You talk of "dalliance;" but certainly no lover was ever more attached to his miſtreſs, than ſhe is to me. Her eyes follow me every where, and by affection I have the moſt deſpotic power over her. She is all vivacity or ſoftneſs—yes; I love her more than I thought I ſhould. When I have been hurt at your ſtay, I have embraced her as my only comfort—when pleaſed with you, for looking and laughing like you; nay, I cannot, I find, long be an gry with you, whilſt I am kiſſing her for reſembling you. But there would be no end to theſe details. Fold us both to your heart; for I am truly and affectionately

Yours

* * * *

LETTER XXIX

December 28.

— — — — — — — — — — —

I do, my love, indeed ſincerely ſympathize with you in all your diſappointments.—Yet, knowing that you are well, and think of me with affec tion, I only lament other diſappointments, becauſe I am ſorry that you ſhould thus exert yourſelf in vain, and that you are kept from me.

———, I know, urges you to ſtay, and is continually branching out into new projects, becauſe he has the idle deſire to amaſs a large fortune, rather an immenſe one, merely to have the credit of having made it. But we who are governed by other motives, ought not to be led on by him. When we meet, we will diſcuſs this ſubject—You will liſten to reaſon, and it has probably occurred to you, that it will be better, in future, to purſue ſome ſober plan, which may demand more time, and ſtill enable you to arrive at the ſame end. It appears to me abſurd to waſte life in preparing to live.

Would it not now be poſſible to ar range your buſineſs in ſuch a manner as to avoid the inquietudes, of which I have had my ſhare ſince your departure? Is it not poſſible to enter into buſineſs, as an employment neceſſary to keep the faculties awake, and (to ſink a little in the expreſſions) the pot boiling, without ſuffering what muſt ever be conſidered as a ſecondary object, to engroſs the mind, and drive ſentiment and affection out of the heart?

I am in a hurry to give this letter to the perſon who has promiſed to forward it with ———'s. I wiſh then to counteract, in ſome meaſure, what he has doubtleſs recommended moſt warmly.

Stay, my friend, whilſt it is abſolutely neceſſary.—I will give you no tenderer name, though it glows at my heart, unleſs you come the moment the ſettling the preſent objects permit.—I do not conſent to your taking any other journey—or the little woman and I will be off, the Lord knows where. But, as I had rather owe every thing to your affection, and, I may add, to your reaſon, (for this immoderate deſire of wealth, which makes ——— ſo eager to have you remain, is contrary to your principles of action), I will not importune you.—I will only tell you, that I long to ſee you—and, being at peace with you, I ſhall be hurt, rather than made angry, by delays.—Having ſuffered ſo much in life, do not be ſurpriſed if I ſometimes, when left to myſelf, grow gloomy, and ſuppoſe that it was all a dream, and that my happineſs is not to laſt. I ſay happineſs, becauſe remembrance retrenches all the dark ſhades of the picture.

My little one begins to ſhow her teeth, and uſe her legs—She wants you to bear your part in the nurſing buſineſs, for I am fatigued with dancing her, and yet ſhe is not ſatiſfied—ſhe wants you to thank her mother for taking ſuch care of her, as you only can.

Yours truly

* * * *

LETTER XXX

December 29.

Though I ſuppoſe you have later intelligence, yet, as ——— has juſt informed me that he has an opportuni ty of ſending immediately to you, I take advantage of it to incloſe you

— — — — — — — — — — —

How I hate this crooked buſineſs! This intercourſe with the world, which obliges one to ſee the worſt ſide of human nature! Why cannot you be content with the object you had firſt in view, when you entered into this weariſome labyrinth?—I know very well that you have imperceptibly been drawn on; yet why does one project, ſucceſſful or abortive, only give place to two others? Is it not ſufficient to avoid poverty?—I am contented to do my part; and, even here, ſufficient to eſcape from wretchedneſs is not difficult to obtain. And, let me tell you, I have my project alſo—and, if you do not ſoon return, the little girl and I will take care of ourſelves; we will not accept any of your cold kindneſs—your diſtant civilities—no; not we.

This is but half jeſting, for I am really tormented by the deſire which ——— manifeſts to have you remain where you are.—Yet why do I talk to you?—If he can perſuade you—let him!—for, if you are not happier with me, and your own wiſhes do not make you throw aſide theſe eternal projects, I am above uſing any arguments, though reaſon as well as affection ſeems to offer them—if our affection be mutual, they will occur to you—and you will act accordingly.

Since my arrival here, I have found the German lady, of whom you have heard me ſpeak. Her firſt child died in the month; but ſhe has another, about the age of my ———, a fine little creature. They are ſtill but con triving to live——earning their daily bread—yet, though they are but juſt above poverty, I envy them.—She is a tender, affectionate mother—fatigued even by her attention.—However ſhe has an affectionate huſband in her turn, to render her care light, and to ſhare her pleaſure.

I will own to you that, feeling extreme tenderneſs for my little girl, I grow ſad very often when I am playing with her, that you are not here, to obſerve with me how her mind unfolds, and her little heart becomes attached!—Theſe appear to me to be true pleaſures—and ſtill you ſuffer them to eſcape you, in ſearch of what we may never enjoy.—It is your own maxim to "live in the preſent moment."—If you do—ſtay, for God's ſake; but tell me the truth—if not, tell me when I may expect to ſee you, and let me not be always vainly looking for you, till I grow ſick at heart.

Adieu! I am a little hurt.—I muſt take my darling to my boſom to comfort me.

* * * *

LETTER XXXI

December 30.

Should you receive three or four of the letters at once which I have written lately, do not think of Sir John Brute, for I do not mean to wife you. I only take advantage of every occaſion, that one out of three of my epiſtles may reach your hands, and in form you that I am not of ———'s opinion, who talks till he makes me angry, of the neceſſity of your ſtaying two or three months longer. I do not like this life of continual inquietude—and, entre nous, I am determined to try to earn ſome money here myſelf, in order to convince you that, if you chuſe to run about the world to get a fortune, it is for yourſelf—for the little girl and I will live without your aſſiſtance, unleſs you are with us. I may be termed proud—Be it ſo—but I will never abandon certain principles of action.

The common run of men have ſuch an ignoble way of thinking, that, if they debauch their hearts, and proſtitute their perſons, following perhaps a guſt of inebriation, they ſuppoſe the wife, ſlave rather, whom they main tain, has no right to complain, and ought to receive the ſultan, whenever he deigns to return, with open arms, though his have been polluted by half an hundred promiſcuous amours during his abſence.

I conſider fidelity and conſtancy as two diſtinct things; yet the former is neceſſary, to give life to the other—and ſuch a degree of reſpect do I think due to myſelf, that, if only probity, which is a good thing in its place, brings you back, never return!—for, if a wandering of the heart, or even a caprice of the imagination detains you—there is an end of all my hopes of happineſs—I could not forgive it, if I would.

I have gotten into a melancholy mood, you perceive. You know my opinion of men in general; you know that I think them ſyſtematic tyrants, and that it is the rareſt thing in the world, to meet with a man with ſufficient delicacy of feeling to govern deſire. When I am thus ſad, I lament that my little darling, fondly as I doat on her, is a girl.—I am ſorry to have a tie to a world that for me is ever ſown with thorns.

You will call this an ill-humoured letter, when, in fact, it is the ſtrongeſt proof of affection I can give, to dread to loſe you. ——— has taken ſuch pains to convince me that you muſt and ought to ſtay, that it has inconceivably depreſſed my ſpirits—You have always known my opinion—I have ever declared, that two people, who mean to live together, ought not to be long ſeparated.—If certain things are more neceſſary to you than me—ſearch for them—Say but one word, and you ſhall never hear of me more.—If not—for God's ſake, let us ſtruggle with poverty—with any evil, but theſe continual inquietudes of buſineſs, which I have been told were to laſt but a few months, though every day the end appears more diſtant! This is the firſt letter in this ſtrain that I have determined to forward to you; the reſt lie by, becauſe I was unwilling to give you pain, and I ſhould not now write, if I did not think that there would be no concluſion to the ſchemes, which demand, as I am told, your preſence.

* * * *[91-A]

LETTER XXXII

January 9.

I juſt now received one of your haſty notes; for buſineſs ſo entirely occupies you, that you have not time, or ſufficient command of thought, to write letters. Beware! you ſeem to be got into a whirl of projects and ſchemes, which are drawing you into a gulph, that, if it do not abſorb your happineſs, will infallibly deſtroy mine.

Fatigued during my youth by the moſt arduous ſtruggles, not only to obtain independence, but to render myſelf uſeful, not merely pleaſure, for which I had the moſt lively taſte, I mean the ſimple pleaſures that flow from paſſion and affection, eſcaped me, but the moſt melancholy views of life were impreſſed by a diſappointed heart on my mind. Since I knew you, I have been endeavouring to go back to my former nature, and have allowed ſome time to glide away, winged with the delight which only ſpontaneous enjoyment can give.—Why have you ſo ſoon diſſolved the charm?

I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude which your and ———'s never-ending plans produce. This you may term want of firmneſs—but you are miſtaken—I have ſtill ſufficient firmneſs to purſue my principle of action. The preſent miſery, I cannot find a ſofter word to do juſtice to my feelings, appears to me unneceſ ſary—and therefore I have not firmneſs to ſupport it as you may think I ought. I ſhould have been content, and ſtill wiſh, to retire with you to a farm—My God! any thing, but theſe continual anxieties—any thing but commerce, which debaſes the mind, and roots out affection from the heart.

I do not mean to complain of ſubordinate inconveniences——yet I will ſimply obſerve, that, led to expect you every week, I did not make the arrangements required by the preſent circumſtances, to procure the neceſſaries of life. In order to have them, a ſervant, for that purpoſe only, is indiſpenſible—The want of wood, has made me catch the moſt violent cold I ever had; and my head is ſo diſturbed by continual coughing, that I am unable to write without ſtopping frequently to recollect myſelf.—This however is one of the common evils which muſt be borne with——bodily pain does not touch the heart, though it fatigues the ſpirits.

Still as you talk of your return, even in February, doubtingly, I have determined, the moment the weather changes, to wean my child.—It is too ſoon for her to begin to divide ſorrow!—And as one has well ſaid, "deſpair is a freeman," we will go and ſeek our fortune together.

This is not a caprice of the moment—for your abſence has given new weight to ſome concluſions, that I was very reluctantly forming before you left me.—I do not chuſe to be a ſecondary object.—If your feelings were in uniſon with mine, you would not ſacrifice ſo much to viſionary proſpects of future advantage.

* * * *

LETTER XXXIII

Jan. 15.

I was juſt going to begin my letter with the fag end of a ſong, which would only have told you, what I may as well ſay ſimply, that it is pleaſant to forgive thoſe we love. I have received your two letters, dated the 26th and 28th of December, and my anger died away. You can ſcarcely conceive the effect ſome of your letters have produced on me. After longing to hear from you during a tedious interval of ſuſpenſe, I have ſeen a ſuperſcription written by you.—Promiſing myſelf pleaſure, and feeling emotion, I have laid it by me, till the perſon who brought it, left the room—when, behold! on opening it, I have found only half a dozen haſty lines, that have damped all the riſing affection of my ſoul.

Well, now for buſineſs—

— — — — — — — — — — —

My animal is well; I have not yet taught her to eat, but nature is doing the buſineſs. I gave her a cruſt to aſſiſt the cutting of her teeth; and now ſhe has two, ſhe makes good uſe of them to gnaw a cruſt, biſcuit, &c. You would laugh to ſee her; ſhe is juſt like a little ſquirrel; ſhe will guard a cruſt for two hours; and, after fixing her eye on an object for ſome time, dart on it with an aim as ſure as a bird of prey—nothing can equal her life and ſpirits. I ſuffer from a cold; but it does not affect her. Adieu! do not forget to love us—and come ſoon to tell us that you do.

* * * *

LETTER XXXIV

Jan. 30.

From the purport of your laſt letters, I would ſuppoſe that this will ſcarcely reach you; and I have already written ſo many letters, that you have either not received, or neglected to acknowledge, I do not find it pleaſant, or rather I have no inclination, to go over the ſame ground again. If you have received them, and are ſtill detained by new projects, it is uſeleſs for me to ſay any more on the ſubject. I have done with it for ever—yet I ought to remind you that your pecuniary intereſt ſuffers by your abſence.

— — — — — — — — — — —

For my part, my head is turned giddy, by only hearing of plans to make money, and my contemptuous feelings have ſometimes burſt out. I therefore was glad that a violent cold gave me a pretext to ſtay at home, leſt I ſhould have uttered unſeaſonable truths.

My child is well, and the ſpring will perhaps reſtore me to myſelf.—I have endured many inconveniences this winter, which ſhould I be aſhamed to mention, if they had been unavoidable. "The ſecondary pleaſures of life," you ſay, "are very neceſſary to my comfort:" it may be ſo; but I have ever conſidered them as ſecondary. If therefore you accuſe me of wanting the reſolution neceſſary to bear the common[100-A] evils of life; I ſhould anſwer, that I have not faſhioned my mind to ſuſtain them, becauſe I would avoid them, coſt what it would——

Adieu!

* * * *

LETTER XXXV

February 9.

The melancholy preſentiment has for ſome time hung on my ſpirits, that we were parted for ever; and the letters I received this day, by Mr. ——, convince me that it was not without foundation. You allude to ſome other letters, which I ſuppoſe have miſcarried; for moſt of thoſe I have got, were only a few haſty lines, calculated to wound the tenderneſs the ſight of the ſuperſcriptions excited.

I mean not however to complain; yet ſo many feelings are ſtruggling for utterance, and agitating a heart almoſt burſting with anguiſh, that I find it very difficult to write with any degree of coherence.

You left me indiſpoſed, though you have taken no notice of it; and the moſt fatiguing journey I ever had, contributed to continue it. However, I recovered my health; but a neglected cold, and continual inquietude during the laſt two months, have reduced me to a ſtate of weakneſs I never before experienced. Thoſe who did not know that the canker-worm was at work at the core, cautioned me about ſuckling my child too long.—God preſerve this poor child, and render her happier than her mother!

But I am wandering from my ſubject: indeed my head turns giddy, when I think that all the confidence I have had in the affection of others is come to this.

I did not expect this blow from you. I have done my duty to you and my child; and if I am not to have any return of affection to reward me, I have the ſad conſolation of knowing that I deſerved a better fate. My ſoul is weary—I am ſick at heart; and, but for this little darling, I would ceaſe to care about a life, which is now ſtripped of every charm.

You ſee how ſtupid I am, uttering declamation, when I meant ſimply to tell you, that I conſider your requeſting me to come to you, as merely dictated by honour.—Indeed, I ſcarcely underſtand you.—You requeſt me to come, and then tell me, that you have not given up all thoughts of returning to this place.

When I determined to live with you, I was only governed by affection.—I would ſhare poverty with you, but I turn with affright from the ſea of trouble on which you are entering.—I have certain principles of action: I know what I look for to found my happineſs on.—It is not money.—With you I wiſhed for ſufficient to procure the comforts of life—as it is, leſs will do.—I can ſtill exert myſelf to obtain the neceſſaries of life for my child, and ſhe does not want more at preſent.—I have two or three plans in my head to earn our ſubſiſtence; for do not ſuppoſe that, neglected by you, I will lie under obligations of a pecuniary kind to you!—No; I would ſooner ſubmit to menial ſervice.—I wanted the ſupport of your affection—that gone, all is over!—I did not think, when I complained of ——'s contemptible avidity to accumulate money, that he would have dragged you into his ſchemes.

I cannot write.—I incloſe a fragment of a letter, written ſoon after your departure, and another which tenderneſs made me keep back when it was written.—You will ſee then the ſentiments of a calmer, though not a more determined, moment.—Do not inſult me by ſaying, that "our being together is paramount to every other conſideration!" Were it, you would not be running after a bubble, at the expence of my peace of mind.

Perhaps this is the laſt letter you will ever receive from me.

* * * *

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 to gether, 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. I ſhall 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, 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, your repu tation will not ſuffer. I ſhall never have a confident: I am content with the 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.——

LETTER XXXVII

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 cannot explain 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 dependent 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 to avoid hearing of the eternal projects to which you have ſacrificed my peace—not remembering—but I will be ſilent for ever.——

LETTER XXXVIII

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 ſhould ceaſe 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 your 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,

* * * *

LETTER XXXIX

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 to be 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!

Yours truly

* * * *

I have weaned my ———, and ſhe is now eating away at the white bread.

LETTER XL

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, to converſe 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 they carry 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 ſharp ened by anguiſh.—My ſoul has been ſhook, and my tone of feelings deſtroyed.—I have gone out—and ſought for diſſipation, 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, alas! 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,

* * * *

LETTER XLI

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!

Yours ſincerely

* * * *

LETTER XLII

—, 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 night—and now we are here in a comfortleſs, damp room, in a ſort of a 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 reſt contented in? 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!

LETTER XLIII

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,

* * * *

LETTER XLIV

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 baniſh ennui, 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 diſtinc tive 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 and child-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 conti nually 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 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 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 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 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 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

* * * *

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 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. One more adieu!

LETTER XLV

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 wo man, 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 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 the emotions of tenderneſs, which ought to ſoften the cares of life.——God bleſs you!

Yours ſincerely and affectionately

* * * *

LETTER XLVI

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 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.

LETTER XLVII

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 con flict 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

* * * *

LETTER XLVIII

Wedneſday Morning.

I was hurried 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 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 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 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,

Yours ſincerely

* * * *

LETTER XLIX

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 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 a broken 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

* * * *

LETTER L

Saturday.

This is 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 eaſt chillers, 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 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

* * * *

LETTER LI

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 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 heart than 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.

LETTER LII

June 27, Saturday.

I arrived in ——— 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

* * * *

LETTER LIII

June 29.

I wrote to 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.

* * * *

LETTER LIV

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 incli nation 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

* * * *

Poor ——— has ſuffered during the journey with her teeth.

LETTER LV

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 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 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 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 to be my inferiors.—I will liſten to delicacy, or pride.

LETTER LVI

July 4.

I hope to 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 a phyſical life 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 plea ſures; 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.

LETTER LVII

July 7.

I could not 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 of life. 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.

* * * *

LETTER LVIII

July 14.

I am now 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 all rectitude.—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.

LETTER LIX

July 18.

I am here 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!

* * * *

LETTER LX

July 30.

I have juſt 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 I feel 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 be convinced 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 even ſleep 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.

LETTER LXI

Auguſt 5.

Employment and 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 ſo conſtituted, 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!

LETTER LXII

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 pleaſure I 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 happi neſs 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

* * * *

LETTER LXIII

Auguſt 9.

Five of 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 ſome degree of anxiety till I am informed how your affairs terminate.

Yours ſincerely

* * * *

LETTER LXIV

Auguſt 26.

I arrived here 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 nothing in 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 tenderneſs for 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 faculties are 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.

* * * *

LETTER LXV

September 6.

I received juſt 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 in difference. 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 fain take 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 muſt compoſe 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!

LETTER LXVI

September 25.

I have juſt 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 repeatedly written 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!

* * * *

END VOL. III.

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.

VOL. I.

PREFACE.

LETTERS.

LETTER I

LETTER II

LETTER III

LETTER IV[7-A].

LETTER V

LETTER VI

LETTER VII

LETTER VIII

LETTER IX

LETTER X

LETTER XI

LETTER XII

LETTER XIII

LETTER XIV

LETTER XV

LETTER XVI

LETTER XVII

LETTER XVIII

LETTER XIX

LETTER XX

LETTER XXI

LETTER XXII

LETTER XXIII[58-A].

LETTER XXIV

LETTER XXV

LETTER XXVI

LETTER XXVII

LETTER XXVIII

LETTER XXIX

LETTER XXX

LETTER XXXI

LETTER XXXII

LETTER XXXIII

LETTER XXXIV

LETTER XXXV

LETTER XXXVI

LETTER XXXVII

LETTER XXXVIII

LETTER XXXIX

LETTER XL

LETTER XLI

LETTER XLII

LETTER XLIII

LETTER XLIV

LETTER XLV

LETTER XLVI

LETTER XLVII

LETTER XLVIII

LETTER XLIX

LETTER L

LETTER LI

LETTER LII

LETTER LIII

LETTER LIV

LETTER LV

LETTER LVI

LETTER LVII

LETTER LVIII

LETTER LIX

LETTER LX

LETTER LXI

LETTER LXII

LETTER LXIII

LETTER LXIV

LETTER LXV

LETTER LXVI

END VOL. III.

FOOTNOTES:

POSTHUMOUS WORKS

LETTER IV [7-A].

LETTER XXIII [58-A].