LETTER VIII
You made me very low-ſpirited laſt night, by your manner of talking.—You are my only friend—the only perſon I am intimate with.—I never had a father, or a brother—you have been both to me, ever ſince I knew you—yet I have ſometimes been very petulant.—I have been thinking of thoſe inſtances of ill-humour and quickneſs, and they appeared like crimes.
Yours ſincerely
mary.
LETTER IX
Saturday Night.
I am a mere animal, and inſtinctive emotions too often ſilence the ſuggeſtions of reaſon. Your note—I can ſcarcely tell why, hurt me—and produced a kind of winterly ſmile, which diffuſes a beam of deſpondent tranquillity over the features. I have been very ill—Heaven knows it was more than fancy—After ſome ſleepleſs, weariſome nights, towards the morning I have grown delirious.—Laſt Thurſday, in particular, I imagined ——— was thrown into great diſtreſs by his folly; and I, unable to aſſiſt him, was in an agony. My nerves were in ſuch a painful ſtate of irritation—I ſuffered more than I can expreſs—Society was neceſſary—and might have diverted me till I gained more ſtrength; but I bluſhed when I recollected how often I had teazed you with childiſh complaints, and the reveries of a diſordered imagination. I even imagined that I intruded on you, becauſe you never called on me—though you perceived that I was not well.—I have nouriſhed a ſickly kind of delicacy, which gives me many unneceſſary pangs.—I acknowledge that life is but a jeſt—and often a frightful dream—yet catch myſelf every day ſearching for ſomething ſerious—and feel real miſery from the diſappointment. I am a ſtrange compound of weakneſs and reſolution! However, if I muſt ſuffer, I will endeavour to ſuffer in ſilence. There is certainly a great defect in my mind—my wayward heart creates its own miſery—Why I am made thus I cannot tell; and, till I can form ſome idea of the whole of my exiſtence, I muſt be content to weep and dance like a child—long for a toy, and be tired of it as ſoon as I get it.
We muſt each of us wear a fool's cap; but mine, alas! has loſt its bells, and is grown ſo heavy, I find it intolerably troubleſome.——Good-night! I have been purſuing a number of ſtrange thoughts ſince I began to write, and have actually both wept and laughed immoderately—Surely I am a fool—