Can you find a name more despicable than folly for the will that acts in opposition to acknowledged reason? If you can—apply that worst of names to me—to my incomprehensible conduct.
Oh, Miss Ashburn, almost without a motive have I pursued a dream, a phantasy! The offspring of my heated imagination.—Fancy lent her utmost delusions, and dressed the vision in such glowing charms that neither prudence, honour, friendship, nor aught else could stay me in my course—not even the heavenly—
Whither am I running!—I would give a world that I could tell you—When! where! why! I dreamt and was awakened—not for a world's wealth though would I tell you.
'Tis past! 'tis done! the mischief is irretrievable.—The phantom remains; but the gilded hope that illumined her path is gone—despair casts its length of shade around me; and sunshine is no more.
Let me recollect myself.—When I began to write, I meant to request you would say something conciliating for me to Sir Thomas. The letter I left for him was written in haste and from a sudden impulse, and probably expressed nothing I either meant or ought to have said—I beseech you, madam, do this for me. I know my uncle looks on me with affection; and I do not consider myself entitled to make so free with the happiness of others as I have done with my own.
If he has any expostulations to offer, any reproaches to make me, let him send them to Barlowe Hall. There I shall be some time. But let him not ask me to come to London.——No: Miss Ashburn, the ignis fatuus is still in view; and, though I perfectly understand its nature and have no hope nor scarce a wish to overtake it, yet am I, lunatic-like, galloping after it over hedge, bog, and briar.
From this assurance, and from the many other things you know of me, you will believe I am in the right to subscribe myself the infatuated, miserable,
A. MURDEN