I cannot write. I thought I could quickly have refuted all your ingenious arguments; but my head is confuſed.—Right or wrong, I am miſerable!
It ſeems to me, that my conduct has always been governed by the ſtricteſt principles of juſtice and truth.—Yet, how wretched have my ſocial feelings, and delicacy of ſentiment rendered me!—I have loved with my whole ſoul, only to diſcover that I had no chance of a return—and that exiſtence is a burthen without it.
I do not perfectly underſtand you.—If, by the offer of your friendſhip, you ſtill only mean pecuniary ſupport—I muſt again reject it.—Trifling are the ills of poverty in the ſcale of my miſfortunes.—God bleſs you!
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I have been treated ungenerouſly—if I underſtand what is generoſity.——You ſeem to me only to have been anxious to ſhake me off—regardleſs whether you daſhed me to atoms by the fall.—In truth I have been rudely handled. Do you judge coolly, and I truſt you will not continue to call thoſe capricious feelings "the moſt refined," which would undermine not only the moſt ſacred principles, but the affections which unite mankind.——You would render mothers unnatural—and there would be no ſuch thing as a father!—If your theory of morals is the moſt "exalted," it is certainly the moſt eaſy.—It does not require much magnanimity, to determine to pleaſe ourſelves for the moment, let others ſuffer what they will!
Excuſe me for again tormenting you, my heart thirſts for juſtice from you—and whilſt I recollect that you approved Miſs ———'s conduct—I am convinced you will not always juſtify your own.
Beware of the deceptions of paſſion! It will not always baniſh from your mind, that you have acted ignobly—and condeſcended to ſubterfuge to gloſs over the conduct you could not excuſe.—Do truth and principle require ſuch ſacrifices?
LETTER LXXVI
London, December 8.