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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.
