My dearest Friend,--The family are all retired to rest; the busy scenes
of the day are over; a day which I wished to have devoted in a
particular manner to my dearest friend; but company falling in prevented
it, nor could I claim a moment until this silent watch of the night.
Look (is there a dearer name than _friend_? Think of it for me), look to
the date of this letter, and tell me what are the thoughts which arise
in your mind. Do you not recollect that eighteen years have run their
circuit since we pledged our mutual faith to each other, and the
hymeneal torch was lighted at the altar of Love? Yet, yet it burns with
unabating fervor. Old Ocean has not quenched it, nor old Time smothered
it in this bosom. It cheers me in the lonely hour; it comforts me even
in the gloom which sometimes possesses my mind.
It is, my friend, from the remembrance of the joys I have lost, that the
arrow of affliction is pointed. I recollect the untitled man to whom I
gave my heart, and in the agony of recollection, when time and distance
present themselves together, wish he had never been any other. Who shall
give me back time? Who shall compensate to me those years I cannot
recall? How dearly have I paid for a titled husband! Should I wish you
less wise, that I might enjoy more happiness? I cannot find that in my
heart. Yet Providence has wisely placed the real blessings of life
within the reach of moderate abilities; and he who is wiser than his
neighbor sees so much more to pity and lament, that I doubt whether the
balance of happiness is in his scale.
I feel a disposition to quarrel with a race of beings who have cut me
off, in the midst of my days, from the only society I delighted in. "Yet
no man liveth for himself," says an authority I will not dispute. Let me
draw satisfaction from this source, and, instead of murmuring and
repining at my lot, consider it in a more pleasing view. Let me suppose
that the same gracious Being who first smiled upon our union, and
blessed us in each other, endowed my friend with powers and talents for
the benefit of mankind, and gave him a willing mind to improve them for
the service of his country. You have obtained honor and reputation at
home and abroad. Oh, may not an inglorious peace wither the laurels you
have won!
I wrote you by Captain Grinnell. The _Firebrand_ is in great haste to
return, and I fear will not give me time to say half I wish. I want you
to say many more things to me than you do; but you write so wise, so
like a minister of state. I know your embarrassments. Thus again I pay
for titles. Life takes its complexion from inferior things. It is little
attentions and assiduities that sweeten the bitter draught and smooth
the rugged road.
I have repeatedly expressed my desire to make a part of your family. But
"Will you come and see me?" cannot be taken in that serious light I
should choose to consider an invitation from those I love. I do not
doubt but that you would be glad to see me, but I know you are
apprehensive of dangers and fatigues. I know your situation may be
unsettled, and it may be more permanent than I wish it. Only think how
the words, "three, four, and five years' absence," sound! They sink into
my heart with a weight I cannot express. Do you look like the miniature
you sent? I cannot think so. But you have a better likeness, I am told.
Is that designed for me? Gracious Heaven! restore to me the original,
and I care not who has the shadow.
We are hoping for the fall of Gibraltar, because we imagine that will
facilitate the peace; and who is not weary of the war? The French fleet
still remain with us, and the British cruisers insult them. More
American vessels have been captured since they have lain here than for a
year before; the _General Greene_ is taken and carried into Halifax, by
which, I suppose, I have lost some small bundles or packages. Beals told
me that you gave him seven small packages, which he delivered Captain
Bacon for me. The prisoners have all arrived, except Savil, who is yet
in France. I mentioned to you before, that some of them had been with
me, and offered to repay the money with which you supplied them. I could
only tell them that I had never received a line from you concerning the
matter, and that I chose first to hear from you. I would not receive a
farthing, unless I had your express direction, and your handwriting to
prove, that what you had done was from your private purse, which I was
confident was the case, or you would have been as ready to have relieved
others, if you had any public funds for that purpose, as those which
belonged to this town. I found a story prevailing that what you had done
was at the public expense. This took its rise either from ignorance or
ingratitude; but it fully determined me to receive your direction. The
persons who have been with me are the two Clarks, the two Beales, and
Job Field.
Adieu, my dear friend.
Ever, ever yours,