VOL. II.
ERRATA.
Page 10, line 8, for I write you, read I write to you.
—— 20, — 9, read bring them to ——.
—— 146, — 2 from the bottom, after over, inſert a comma.
CONTENTS.
| Page | |
| Letters | [1] |
| Letter on the Preſent Character of the French Nation | [39] |
| Fragment of Letters on the Management of Infants | [55] |
| Letters to Mr. Johnſon | [61] |
| Extract of the Cave of Fancy, a Tale | [99] |
| On Poetry and our Reliſh for the Beauties of Nature | [159] |
| Hints | [179] |
LETTERS.
LETTER LXVII
September 27.
When you receive this, I ſhall either have landed, or be hovering on the Britiſh coaſt—your letter of the 18th decided me.
By what criterion of principle or affection, you term my queſtions extraordinary and unneceſſary, I cannot determine.—You deſire me to decide—I had decided. You muſt have had long ago two letters of mine, from ———, to the ſame purport, to conſider.—In theſe, God knows! there was but too much affection, and the agonies of a diſtracted mind were but too faithfully pourtrayed!—What more then had I to ſay?—The negative was to come from you.—You had perpetually recurred to your promiſe of meeting me in the autumn—Was it extraordinary that I ſhould demand a yes, or no?—Your letter is written with extreme harſhneſs, coldneſs I am accuſtomed to, in it I find not a trace of the tenderneſs of humanity, much leſs of friendſhip.—I only ſee a deſire to heave a load off your ſhoulders.
I am above diſputing about words.—It matters not in what terms you decide.
The tremendous power who formed this heart, muſt have foreſeen that, in a world in which ſelf-intereſt, in various ſhapes, is the principal mobile, I had little chance of eſcaping miſery.—To the fiat of fate I ſubmit.—I am content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.—Of me you have no cauſe to complain, but for having had too much regard for you—for having expected a degree of permanent happineſs, when you only ſought for a momentary gratification.
I am ſtrangely deficient in ſagacity.—Uniting myſelf to you, your tenderneſs ſeemed to make me amends for all my former miſfortunes.—On this tenderneſs and affection with what confidence did I reſt!—but I leaned on a ſpear, that has pierced me to the heart.—You have thrown off a faithful friend, to purſue the caprices of the moment.—We certainly are differently organized; for even now, when conviction has been ſtamped on my ſoul by ſorrow, I can ſcarcely believe it poſſible. It depends at preſent on you, whether you will ſee me or not.—I ſhall take no ſtep, till I ſee or hear from you.
Preparing myſelf for the worſt—I have determined, if your next letter be like the laſt, to write to Mr. ——— to procure me an obſcure lodging, and not to inform any body of my arrival.—There I will endeavour in a few months to obtain the ſum neceſſary to take me to France—from you I will not receive any more.—I am not yet ſufficiently humbled to depend on your beneficence.
Some people, whom my unhappineſs has intereſted, though they know not the extent of it, will aſſiſt me to attain the object I have in view, the independence of my child. Should a peace take place, ready money will go a great way in France—and I will borrow a ſum, which my induſtry ſhall enable me to pay at my leiſure, to purchaſe a ſmall eſtate for my girl.—The aſſiſtance I ſhall find neceſſary to complete her education, I can get at an eaſy rate at Paris—I can introduce her to ſuch ſociety as ſhe will like—and thus, ſecuring for her all the chance for happineſs, which depends on me, I ſhall die in peace, perſuaded that the felicity which has hitherto cheated my expectation, will not always elude my graſp. No poor tempeſt-toſſed mariner ever more earneſtly longed to arrive at his port.
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I ſhall not come up in the veſſel all the way, becauſe I have no place to go to. Captain ——— will inform you where I am. It is needleſs to add, that I am not in a ſtate of mind to bear ſuſpenſe—and that I wiſh to ſee you, though it be for the laſt time.
LETTER LXVIII
Sunday, October 4.
I wrote to you by the packet, to inform you, that your letter of the 18th of laſt month, had determined me to ſet out with captain ———; but, as we ſailed very quick, I take it for granted, that you have not yet received it.
You ſay, I muſt decide for myſelf.—I had decided, that it was moſt for the intereſt of my little girl, and for my own comfort, little as I expect, for us to live together; and I even thought that you would be glad, ſome years hence, when the tumult of buſineſs was over, to repoſe in the ſociety of an affectionate friend, and mark the progreſs of our intereſting child, whilſt endeavouring to be of uſe in the circle you at laſt reſolved to reſt in; for you cannot run about for ever.
From the tenour of your laſt letter however, I am led to imagine, that you have formed ſome new attachment.—If it be ſo, let me earneſtly requeſt you to ſee me once more, and immediately. This is the only proof I require of the friendſhip you profeſs for me. I will then decide, ſince you boggle about a mere form.
I am labouring to write with calmneſs—but the extreme anguiſh I feel, at landing without having any friend to receive me, and even to be conſcious that the friend whom I moſt wiſh to ſee, will feel a diſagreeable ſenſation at being informed of my arrival, does not come under the deſcription of common miſery. Every emotion yields to an overwhelming flood of ſorrow—and the playfulneſs of my child diſtreſſes me.—On her account, I wiſhed to remain a few days here, comfortleſs as is my ſituation.—Beſides, I did not wiſh to ſurpriſe you. You have told me, that you would make any ſacrifice to promote my happineſs—and, even in your laſt unkind letter, you talk of the ties which bind you to me and my child.—Tell me, that you wiſh it, and I will cut this Gordian knot.
I now moſt earneſtly intreat you to write to me, without fail, by the return of the poſt. Direct your letter to be left at the poſt-office, and tell me whether you will come to me here, or where you will meet me. I can receive your letter on Wedneſday morning.
Do not keep me in ſuſpenſe.—I expect nothing from you, or any human being: my die is caſt!—I have fortitude enough to determine to do my duty; yet I cannot raiſe my depreſſed ſpirits, or calm my trembling heart.—That being who moulded it thus, knows that I am unable to tear up by the roots the propenſity to affection which has been the torment of my life—but life will have an end!
Should you come here (a few months ago I could not have doubted it) you will find me at ———. If you prefer meeting me on the road, tell me where.
Yours affectionately
* * * *
LETTER LXIX
I write you now on my knees; imploring you to ſend my child and the maid with ——, to Paris, to be conſigned to the care of Madame ——, rue ——, ſection de ——. Should they be removed, —— can give their direction.
Let the maid have all my clothes, without diſtinction.
Pray pay the cook her wages, and do not mention the confeſſion which I forced from her—a little ſooner or later is of no conſequence. Nothing but my extreme ſtupidity could have rendered me blind ſo long. Yet, whilſt you aſſured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might ſtill have lived together.
I ſhall make no comments on your conduct; or any appeal to the world. Let my wrongs ſleep with me! Soon, very ſoon ſhall I be at peace. When you receive this, my burning head will be cold.
I would encounter a thouſand deaths, rather than a night like the laſt. Your treatment has thrown my mind into a ſtate of chaos; yet I am ſerene. I go to find comfort, and my only fear is, that my poor body will be inſulted by an endeavour to recal my hated exiſtence. But I ſhall plunge into the Thames where there is the leaſt chance of my being ſnatched from the death I ſeek.
God bleſs you! May you never know by experience what you have made me endure. Should your ſenſibility ever awake, remorſe will find its way to your heart; and, in the midſt of buſineſs and ſenſual pleaſure, I ſhall appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude.
* * * *
LETTER LXX
Sunday Morning.
I have only to lament, that, when the bitterneſs of death was paſt, I was inhumanly brought back to life and miſery. But a fixed determination is not to be baffled by diſappointment; nor will I allow that to be a frantic attempt, which was one of the calmeſt acts of reaſon. In this reſpect, I am only accountable to myſelf. Did I care for what is termed reputation, it is by other circumſtances that I ſhould be diſhonoured.
You ſay, "that you know not how to extricate ourſelves out of the wretchedneſs into which we have been plunged." You are extricated long ſince.—But I forbear to comment.——If I am condemned to live longer, it is a living death.
It appears to me, that you lay much more ſtreſs on delicacy, than on principle; for I am unable to diſcover what ſentiment of delicacy would have been violated, by your viſiting a wretched friend—if indeed you have any friendſhip for me.—But ſince your new attachment is the only thing ſacred in your eyes, I am ſilent—Be happy! My complaints ſhall never more damp your enjoyment—perhaps I am miſtaken in ſuppoſing that even my death could, for more than a moment.—This is what you call magnanimity—It is happy for yourſelf, that you poſſeſs this quality in the higheſt degree.
Your continually aſſerting, that you will do all in your power to contribute to my comfort (when you only allude to pecuniary aſſiſtance), appears to me a flagrant breach of delicacy.—I want not ſuch vulgar comfort, nor will I accept it. I never wanted but your heart—That gone, you have nothing more to give. Had I only poverty to fear, I ſhould not ſhrink from life.—Forgive me then, if I ſay, that I ſhall conſider any direct or indirect attempt to ſupply my neceſſities, as an inſult which I have not merited—and as rather done out of tenderneſs for your own reputation, than for me. Do not miſtake me; I do not think that you value money (therefore I will not accept what you do not care for) though I do much leſs, becauſe certain privations are not painful to me. When I am dead, reſpect for yourſelf will make you take care of the child.
I write with difficulty—probably I ſhall never write to you again.—Adieu!
God bleſs you!
* * * *
LETTER LXXI
Monday Morning.
I am compelled at laſt to ſay that you treat me ungenerouſly. I agree with you, that
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But let the obliquity now fall on me.—I fear neither poverty nor infamy. I am unequal to the taſk of writing—and explanations are not neceſſary.
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My child may have to bluſh for her mother's want of prudence—and may lament that the rectitude of my heart made me above vulgar precautions; but ſhe ſhall not deſpiſe me for meanneſs.—You are now perfectly free.—God bleſs you.
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LETTER LXXIII
Saturday Night.
I have been hurt by indirect enquiries, which appear to me not to be dictated by any tenderneſs to me.—You aſk "If I am well or tranquil?"—They who think me ſo, muſt want a heart to eſtimate my feelings by.—I chuſe then to be the organ of my own ſentiments.
I muſt tell you, that I am very much mortified by your continually offering me pecuniary aſſiſtance—and, conſidering your going to the new houſe, as an open avowal that you abandon me, let me tell you that I will ſooner periſh than receive any thing from you—and I ſay this at the moment when I am diſappointed in my firſt attempt to obtain a temporary ſupply. But this even pleaſes me; an accumulation of diſappointments and miſfortunes ſeems to ſuit the habit of my mind.—
Have but a little patience, and I will remove myſelf where it will not be neceſſary for you to talk—of courſe, not to think of me. But let me ſee, written by yourſelf—for I will not receive it through any other medium—that the affair is finiſhed.—It is an inſult to me to ſuppoſe, that I can be reconciled, or recover my ſpirits; but, if you hear nothing of me, it will be the ſame thing to you.
* * * *
Even your ſeeing me, has been to oblige other people, and not to ſooth my diſtracted mind.
LETTER LXXIV
Thurſday Afternoon.
Mr. ——— having forgot to deſire you to ſend the things of mine which were left at the houſe, I have to requeſt you to let ——— bring them onto ———.
I ſhall go this evening to the lodging; ſo you need not be reſtrained from coming here to tranſact your buſineſs.—And, whatever I may think, and feel—you need not fear that I ſhall publicly complain—No! If I have any criterion to judge of right and wrong, I have been moſt ungenerouſly treated: but, wiſhing now only to hide myſelf, I ſhall be ſilent as the grave in which I long to forget myſelf. I ſhall protect and provide for my child.—I only mean by this to ſay, that you having nothing to fear from my deſperation.
Farewel.
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LETTER LXXV
London, November 27.
The letter, without an addreſs, which you put up with the letters you returned, did not meet my eyes till juſt now.—I had thrown the letters aſide—I did not wiſh to look over a regiſter of ſorrow.
My not having ſeen it, will account for my having written to you with anger—under the impreſſion your departure, without even a line left for me, made on me, even after your late conduct, which could not lead me to expect much attention to my ſufferings.
In fact, "the decided conduct, which appeared to me ſo unfeeling," has almoſt overturned my reaſon; my mind is injured—I ſcarcely know where I am, or what I do.—The grief I cannot conquer (for ſome cruel recollections never quit me, baniſhing almoſt every other) I labour to conceal in total ſolitude.—My life therefore is but an exerciſe of fortitude, continually on the ſtretch—and hope never gleams in this tomb, where I am buried alive.
But I meant to reaſon with you, and not to complain.—You tell me, "that I ſhall judge more coolly of your mode of acting, ſome time hence." But is it not poſſible that paſſion clouds your reaſon, as much as it does mine?—and ought you not to doubt, whether thoſe principles are ſo "exalted," as you term them, which only lead to your own gratification? In other words, whether it be juſt to have no principle of action, but that of following your inclination, trampling on the affection you have foſtered, and the expectations you have excited?
My affection for you is rooted in my heart.—I know you are not what you now ſeem—nor will you always act, or feel, as you now do, though I may never be comforted by the change.—Even at Paris, my image will haunt you.—You will ſee my pale face—and ſometimes the tears of anguiſh will drop on your heart, which you have forced from mine.
I cannot write. I thought I could quickly have refuted all your ingenious arguments; but my head is confuſed.—Right or wrong, I am miſerable!
It ſeems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the ſtricteſt principles of juſtice and truth.—Yet, how wretched have my ſocial feelings, and delicacy of ſentiment rendered me!—I have loved with my whole ſoul, only to diſcover that I had no chance of a return—and that exiſtence is a burthen without it.
I do not perfectly underſtand you.—If, by the offer of your friendſhip, you ſtill only mean pecuniary ſupport—I muſt again reject it.—Trifling are the ills of poverty in the ſcale of my miſfortunes.—God bleſs you!
* * * *
I have been treated ungenerouſly—if I underſtand what is generoſity.——You ſeem to me only to have been anxious to ſhake me off—regardleſs whether you daſhed me to atoms by the fall.—In truth I have been rudely handled. Do you judge coolly, and I truſt you will not continue to call thoſe capricious feelings "the moſt refined," which would undermine not only the moſt ſacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind.——You would render mothers unnatural—and there would be no ſuch thing as a father!—If your theory of morals is the moſt "exalted," it is certainly the moſt eaſy.—It does not require much magnanimity, to determine to pleaſe ourſelves for the moment, let others ſuffer what they will!
Excuſe me for again tormenting you, my heart thirſts for juſtice from you—and whilſt I recollect that you approved Miſs ———'s conduct—I am convinced you will not always juſtify your own.
Beware of the deceptions of paſſion! It will not always baniſh from your mind, that you have acted ignobly—and condeſcended to ſubterfuge to gloſs over the conduct you could not excuſe.—Do truth and principle require ſuch ſacrifices?
LETTER LXXVI
London, December 8.
Having juſt been informed that ——— is to return immediately to Paris, I would not miſs a ſure opportunity of writing, becauſe I am not certain that my laſt, by Dover has reached you.
Reſentment, and even anger, are momentary emotions with me—and I wiſhed to tell you ſo, that if you ever think of me, it may not be in the light of an enemy.
That I have not been uſed well I muſt ever feel; perhaps, not always with the keen anguiſh I do at preſent—for I began even now to write calmly, and I cannot reſtrain my tears.
I am ſtunned!—Your late conduct ſtill appears to me a frightful dream.—Ah! aſk yourſelf if you have not condeſcended to employ a little addreſs, I could almoſt ſay cunning, unworthy of you?—Principles are ſacred things—and we never play with truth, with impunity.
The expectation (I have too fondly nouriſhed it) of regaining your affection, every day grows fainter and fainter.—Indeed, it ſeems to me, when I am more ſad than uſual, that I ſhall never ſee you more.—Yet you will not always forget me.—You will feel ſomething like remorſe, for having lived only for yourſelf—and ſacrificed my peace to inferior gratifications. In a comfortleſs old age, you will remember that you had one diſintereſted friend, whoſe heart you wounded to the quick. The hour of recollection will come—and you will not be ſatiſfied to act the part of a boy, till you fall into that of a dotard. I know that your mind, your heart, and your principles of action, are all ſuperior to your preſent conduct. You do, you muſt, reſpect me—and you will be ſorry to forfeit my eſteem.
You know beſt whether I am ſtill preſerving the remembrance of an imaginary being.—I once thought that I knew you thoroughly—but now I am obliged to leave ſome doubts that involuntarily preſs on me, to be cleared up by time.
You may render me unhappy; but cannot make me contemptible in my own eyes.—I ſhall ſtill be able to ſupport my child, though I am diſappointed in ſome other plans of uſefulneſs, which I once believed would have afforded you equal pleaſure.
Whilſt I was with you, I reſtrained my natural generoſity, becauſe I thought your property in jeopardy.—When I went to ————, I requeſted you, if you could conveniently, not to forget my father, ſiſters, and ſome other people, whom I was intereſted about.—Money was laviſhed away, yet not only my requeſts were neglected, but ſome trifling debts were not diſcharged, that now come on me.—Was this friendſhip—or generoſity? Will you not grant you have forgotten yourſelf? Still I have an affection for you.—God bleſs you.
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LETTER LXXVII
As the parting from you for ever is the moſt ſerious event of my life, I will once expoſtulate with you, and call not the language of truth and feeling ingenuity!
I know the ſoundneſs of your underſtanding—and know that it is impoſſible for you always to confound the caprices of every wayward inclination with the manly dictates of principle.
You tell me "that I torment you."—Why do I?——Becauſe you cannot eſtrange your heart entirely from me—and you feel that juſtice is on my ſide. You urge, "that your conduct was unequivocal."—It was not.—When your coolneſs has hurt me, with what tenderneſs have you endeavoured to remove the impreſſion!—and even before I returned to England, you took great pains to convince me, that all my uneaſineſs was occaſioned by the effect of a worn-out conſtitution—and you concluded your letter with theſe words, "Buſineſs alone has kept me from you.—Come to any port, and I will fly down to my two dear girls with a heart all their own."
With theſe aſſurances, is it extraordinary that I ſhould believe what I wiſhed? I might—and did think that you had a ſtruggle with old propenſities; but I ſtill thought that I and virtue ſhould at laſt prevail. I ſtill thought that you had a magnanimity of character, which would enable you to conquer yourſelf.
————, believe me, it is not romance, you have acknowledged to me feelings of this kind.—You could reſtore me to life and hope, and the ſatiſfaction you would feel, would amply repay you.
In tearing myſelf from you, it is my own heart I pierce—and the time will come, when you will lament that you have thrown away a heart, that, even in the moment of paſſion, you cannot deſpiſe.—I would owe every thing to your generoſity—but, for God's ſake, keep me no longer in ſuſpenſe!—Let me ſee you once more!—
LETTER LXXVIII
You muſt do as you pleaſe with reſpect to the child.—I could wiſh that it might be done ſoon, that my name may be no more mentioned to you. It is now finiſhed.—Convinced that you have neither regard nor friendſhip, I diſdain to utter a reproach, though I have had reaſon to think, that the "forbearance" talked of, has not been very delicate.—It is however of no conſequence.—I am glad you are ſatiſfied with your own conduct.
I now ſolemnly aſſure you, that this is an eternal farewel.—Yet I flinch not from the duties which tie me to life.
That there is "ſophiſtry" on one ſide or other, is certain; but now it matters not on which. On my part it has not been a queſtion of words. Yet your underſtanding or mine muſt be ſtrangely warped—for what you term "delicacy," appears to me to be exactly the contrary. I have no criterion for morality, and have thought in vain, if the ſenſations which lead you to follow an ancle or ſtep, be the ſacred foundation of principle and affection. Mine has been of a very different nature, or it would not have ſtood the brunt of your ſarcaſms.
The ſentiment in me is ſtill ſacred. If there be any part of me that will ſurvive the ſenſe of my miſfortunes, it is the purity of my affections. The impetuoſity of your ſenſes, may have led you to term mere animal deſire, the ſource of principle; and it may give zeſt to ſome years to come.—Whether you will always think ſo, I ſhall never know.
It is ſtrange that, in ſpite of all you do, ſomething like conviction forces me to believe, that you are not what you appear to be.
I part with you in peace.
