At the sight of my writing you will exclaim—" She is unhappy, or she would not write to me." 'Tis not so, my dear friend; I am neither more nor less happy than when you left here. With every passing day I have resolved to inform you of my health, but from day to day it has been deferred, till I suppose my very existence is forgotten. Let me, then, awaken your recollection, by presenting to you the image of my thoughts, and retrace, however faintly, the impression I once flattered myself to have made on your memory.
Tell me how you do, and how you pass your time. Taking lessons of Wisdom from your Minerva? or flying after the Atalanta's of Virginia, more swift than their celebrated racers? or, more probably, poring over musty records; offering your time, your pleasures, your health, at the shrine of Fame; sacrificing your own good for that of the public; pursuing a chimera which ever has and ever will mock the grasp; for, however the end may be crowned with success, the motives will be questioned, and that justice which has been refused to a Regulus, a Brutus, a Publius, who can hope for?
I once admired for device a skyrocket, and for motto—Let me perish so I be exalted." I afterward changed my opinion, and preferred the glow-worm twinkling in a hedge. But I now reject them both. They strike for a moment, but neither of them are impressive; and it is thus, in changing, we pursue that something "which prompts, the eternal sigh," which never is, which never can be attained. These reflections arise continually on my reading the newspapers, where your actions are so freely canvassed and so illiberally censured. They often excite my wrath; but when I consider that my anger can no more check their calumnies than the splendour of your reputation be clouded by their impotent attempts, my indignation subsides, and I console myself by saying,
"Vain his attempt who strives to please them all."
Z.
TO THEODOSIA.
Washington, February 21, 1802.
Your letter of the 31st, accompanied by a note dated 1st February, came by the mail of yesterday. A few lines from Mr. Alston, received some days before, advised me of your journey to Clifton, and of the distressing occasion. My heart sinks within me when I think of that lovely and disconsolate woman. Your conduct was worthy of you and of my daughter. She must be restored to reason and to life, by being convinced that she has some motive for enduring existence. If no other can be shown, at least she can be persuaded that she is necessary to you. But I learn from your letter, though you say nothing of it, that although she feels with anguish, yet she will not sink into despondency. This testifies a mind of that dignity and firmness which you had taught me to expect.
Nothing could have been more fortunate than the revival of the project. It will divert the attention and summon up the spirits. You must not condemn; it would be better to cherish it. Enter into all the details. Transport yourselves to Europe, and there take a nearer view and more accurate estimate of the dangers and advantages. Let those who oppose it offer something in lieu. What! is she to wear out her youth and beauty, dissipate her talents, and exhaust her spirits without an object in life or a place in society? Without enjoyment, without distinction? These hints will make you think I may hereafter say more.
My life has no variety, and, of course, no incident. To my feelings your letters are the most important occurrence. I am blessed with three of them in three months. It did not use to be so. It would be no excessive encroachment on your precious time to give me an hour twice a week the evening preceding the post days. This I shall expect; and then, and after one more communication, to be presently mentioned, I will write definitely as to my spring projects.