LETTERS.
LETTER LXVII
September 27.
When you receive this, I ſhall either have landed, or be hovering on the Britiſh coaſt—your letter of the 18th decided me.
By what criterion of principle or affection, you term my queſtions extraordinary and unneceſſary, I cannot determine.—You deſire me to decide—I had decided. You muſt have had long ago two letters of mine, from ———, to the ſame purport, to conſider.—In theſe, God knows! there was but too much affection, and the agonies of a diſtracted mind were but too faithfully pourtrayed!—What more then had I to ſay?—The negative was to come from you.—You had perpetually recurred to your promiſe of meeting me in the autumn—Was it extraordinary that I ſhould demand a yes, or no?—Your letter is written with extreme harſhneſs, coldneſs I am accuſtomed to, in it I find not a trace of the tenderneſs of humanity, much leſs of friendſhip.—I only ſee a deſire to heave a load off your ſhoulders.
I am above diſputing about words.—It matters not in what terms you decide.
The tremendous power who formed this heart, muſt have foreſeen that, in a world in which ſelf-intereſt, in various ſhapes, is the principal mobile, I had little chance of eſcaping miſery.—To the fiat of fate I ſubmit.—I am content to be wretched; but I will not be contemptible.—Of me you have no cauſe to complain, but for having had too much regard for you—for having expected a degree of permanent happineſs, when you only ſought for a momentary gratification.
