I had obtained a frank for my kind friend the evening before I received her letter; being always a little impatient under her prolonged silence, and particularly so at present, when I am impressed in no ordinary degree with a sense of the ‘changes and chances of this mortal life.’
I am just returned from Lord Clifden’s, where we have passed some days. The quiet, sensible conversation and tranquil life of his small party, have been of use to me; while total change of scene and of topics accelerates in some degree the effects of time. I do not disdain any means, nor neglect any efforts, which can aid me in returning to my usual habits—to my usual feelings it is impossible I can ever entirely return. We may lose the sensation of pain, where a limb has been amputated; but I know by experience that the sense of privation must frequently recur. And were affection to be much fainter than it ever has been in my heart, the very spirit of calculation on one’s pleasures must ever recal the lovely, lively image of one who would have embellished the home of advancing years, and sparkled like the evening star on one’s approaching night. I say not this in the language of complaint. I know, and I best know, that I have been favoured by Heaven far above my deserts, and that I have blessings far above the usual lot of mortality. I say it from the habit of opening my heart with some of its weaknesses (who will dare to say they open all?) to a dear and candid friend.
TO THE HONOURABLE MISS AGAR.
London, Jan. 12, 1817.
I have been long musing in my bed this morning, and ended by finding that no subjects of consolation, but those drawn from the invisible world, could have any effect in my present loss. It is true, I have many and most valuable treasures in the husband, children, and friends I have left; for though the latter are few, I do not complain of this, as it is a matter of choice, engaged as my heart is by those few. But you know I possessed all these treasures, when I had her also; and such is the avarice of the human heart, it cannot patiently resign anything which has once engaged its affections, though it may previously have been happy without it. I often wish I loved things more, and persons less. I see women who set their minds on worldly advantages, on being sought for in crowded circles, on casino, on dress, on baubles, extremely happy to an advanced age in these childish pursuits. Of these they cannot be dispossessed, and may be so occupied very harmlessly—better employed, perhaps, than I am in my readings and my reveries. I own I ought not to have expected the situation of my last two years to have lasted; for I found myself so happy, I should have been rejoiced to rest there for ever, without any change but of seasons, of music, and of books. And when I gained my extra health, as I mentioned to you from Cheltenham, I was too well satisfied for this life, and had momentary presentiments that it could not long endure. While I bore a child every year, this great stumbling-block lay in the way of my comfort. Though delighted to have them when they arrived, my ‘absolute contentment’ was disturbed by looking to an annual day of torment and terror; but when I considered this as over, I had all the pleasures of an escape added to the rest. Here is too much of myself, but I like to open my heart, and I avoid the subject in conversation. You can throw down my letter; but you would be saddened by listening to me; and I wish to increase, not to diminish, your enjoyments.
Jan. 13, 1817, Bath.—Saw Mrs. C., after an interval of two years. When I left her then, she was in full possession of all her faculties at eighty-five; conversed, read, worked, attended church most regularly, received her friends with ease and grace, and sometimes amused herself with cards. Now, she is quite helpless, never leaves one seat except to go to rest, and suffers a partial failure of sight and memory. Still her features are lovely, and her manners mild. The innocence of her mind is peculiarly evinced by her malady; for although perfectly thrown open, and her thoughts presented without veil or selection, no sign ever appears of any feeling for which poor humanity need blush. Neither resentment, envy, nor avarice has the smallest place in her breast. A slight desire of elevation in rank, and pleasure in the remembrance of her beauty, are her only weaknesses. To me she is an object peculiarly touching; for she always loved me much; and, if I might dare to use the expression, she shows a greater degree of respectful and admiring affection at this moment than she ever expressed before.
In unconnected phrases, on that tongue