Wednesday Morning.
I will never, if I am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to
encourage “quick-coming fancies,” when we are separated. Yesterday, my
love, I could not open your letter for some time; and, though it was not
half as severe as I merited, it threw me into such a fit of trembling,
as seriously alarmed me. I did not, as you may suppose, care for a
little pain on my own account; but all the fears which I have had for a
few days past, returned with fresh force. This morning I am better; will
you not be glad to hear it? You perceive that sorrow has almost made a
child of me, and that I want to be soothed to peace.
One thing you mistake in my character, and imagine that to be coldness
which is just the contrary. For, when I am hurt by the person most dear
to me, I must let out a whole torrent of emotions, in which tenderness
would be uppermost, or stifle them altogether; and it appears to me
almost a duty to stifle them, when I imagine that I am treated with
coldness.
I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own ——. I know the quickness of
your feelings—and let me, in the sincerity of my heart, assure you,
there is nothing I would not suffer to make you happy. My own happiness
wholly depends on you—and, knowing you, when my reason is not clouded, I
look forward to a rational prospect of as much felicity as the earth
affords—with a little dash of rapture into the bargain, if you will look
at me, when we meet again, as you have sometimes greeted, your humbled,
yet most affectionate
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