Friday Morning.
I am glad to find that other people can be unreasonable, as well as
myself—for be it known to thee, that I answered thy first letter, the
very night it reached me (Sunday), though thou couldst not receive it
before Wednesday, because it was not sent off till the next day.—There
is a full, true, and particular account.—
Yet I am not angry with thee, my love, for I think that it is a proof of
stupidity, and likewise of a milk-and-water affection, which comes to
the same thing, when the temper is governed by a square and
compass.—There is nothing picturesque in this straight-lined equality,
and the passions always give grace to the actions.
Recollection now makes my heart bound to thee; but, it is not to thy
money-getting face, though I cannot be seriously displeased with the
exertion which increases my esteem, or rather is what I should have
expected from thy character.—No; I have thy honest countenance before
me—Pop—relaxed by tenderness; a little—little wounded by my whims; and
thy eyes glistening with sympathy.—Thy lips then feel softer than
soft—and I rest my cheek on thine, forgetting all the world.—I have not
left the hue of love out of the picture—the rosy glow; and fancy has
spread it over my own cheeks, I believe, for I feel them burning, whilst
a delicious tear trembles in my eye, that would be all your own, if a
grateful emotion directed to the Father of nature, who has made me thus
alive to happiness, did not give more warmth to the sentiment it
divides—I must pause a moment.
Need I tell you that I am tranquil after writing thus?—I do not know
why, but I have more confidence in your affection, when absent, than
present; nay, I think that you must love me, for, in the sincerity of my
heart let me say it, I believe I deserve your tenderness, because I am
true, and have a degree of sensibility that you can see and relish.
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