LETTER XIV
I ſend you all the books I had to review except Dr. J—'s Sermons, which I have begun. If you wiſh me to look over any more traſh this month—you muſt ſend it directly. I have been ſo low-ſpirited ſince I ſaw you—I was quite glad, laſt night, to feel myſelf affected by ſome paſſages in Dr. J—'s ſermon on the death of his wife—I ſeemed (ſuddenly) to find my ſoul again—It has been for ſome time I cannot tell where. Send me the Speaker—and Mary, I want one—and I ſhall ſoon want ſome paper—you may as well ſend it at the ſame time—for I am trying to brace my nerves that I may be induſtrious.—I am afraid reaſon is not a good bracer—for I have been reaſoning a long time with my untoward ſpirits—and yet my hand trembles.—I could finiſh a period very prettily now, by ſaying that it ought to be ſteady when I add that I am yours ſincerely,
mary.
If you do not like the manner in which I reviewed Dr. J—'s ſ—— on his wife, be it known unto you—I will not do it any other way—I felt ſome pleaſure in paying a juſt tribute of reſpect to the memory of a man—who, ſpite of his faults, I have an affection for—I ſay have, for I believe he is ſomewhere—where my ſoul has been gadding perhaps;—but you do not live on conjectures.
LETTER XV
My dear ſir, I ſend you a chapter which I am pleaſed with, now I ſee it in one point of view—and, as I have made free with the author, I hope you will not have often to ſay—what does this mean?
You forgot you were to make out my account—I am, of courſe, over head and ears in debt; but I have not that kind of pride, which makes ſome diſlike to be obliged to thoſe they reſpect.—On the contrary, when I involuntarily lament that I have not a father or brother, I thankfully recollect that I have received unexpected kindneſs from you and a few others.—So reaſon allows, what nature impels me to—for I cannot live without loving my fellow-creatures—nor can I love them, without diſcovering ſome virtue.
mary.