LETTER LX
July 30.
I have juſt received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of June; and you muſt have received ſeveral from me, informing you of my detention, and how much I was hurt by your ſilence.
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Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have ſuffered, God knows, ſince I left you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of ſickneſs of heart!—My mind however is at preſent painfully active, and the ſympathy I feel almoſt riſes to agony. But this is not a ſubject of complaint, it has afforded me pleaſure,—and reflected pleaſure is all I have to hope for—if a ſpark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn boſom.
I will try to write with a degree of compoſure. I wiſh for us to live together, becauſe I want you to acquire an habitual tenderneſs for my poor girl. I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or that ſhe ſhould only be protected by your ſenſe of duty. Next to preſerving her, my moſt earneſt wiſh is not to diſturb your peace. I have nothing to expect, and little to fear, in life—There are wounds that can never be healed—but they may be allowed to feſter in ſilence without wincing.
When we meet again, you ſhall be convinced that I have more reſolution than you give me credit for. I will not torment you. If I am deſtined always to be diſappointed and unhappy, I will conceal the anguiſh I cannot diſſipate; and the tightened cord of life or reaſon will at laſt ſnap, and ſet me free.
Yes; I ſhall be happy—This heart is worthy of the bliſs its feelings anticipate—and I cannot even perſuade myſelf, wretched as they have made me, that my principles and ſentiments are not founded in nature and truth. But to have done with theſe ſubjects.