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 pleaſures; 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.