Footnote 8:
This is the first of a series of letters written during a separation
of many months, to which no cordial meeting ever succeeded. They were
sent from Paris, and bear the address of London.
September 22.
I have just written two letters, that are going by other conveyances,
and which I reckon on your receiving long before this. I therefore
merely write, because I know I should be disappointed at seeing any one
who had left you, if you did not send a letter, were it ever so short,
to tell me why you did not write a longer—and you will want to be told,
over and over again, that our little Hercules is quite recovered.
Besides looking at me there are three other things, which delight her—to
ride in a coach, to look at a scarlet waistcoat, and hear loud
music—yesterday at the _féte_, she enjoyed the two latter; but to honor
J. J. Rousseau, I intend to give her a sash, the first she has ever had
round her—and why not?—for I have always been half in love with him.
Well, this you will say is trifling—shall I talk about alum or soap?
There is nothing picturesque in your present pursuits; my imagination
then rather chuses to ramble back to the barrier with you, or to see you
coming to meet me, and my basket of grapes.—With what pleasure do I
recollect your looks and words, when I have been sitting on the window,
regarding the waving corn!
Believe me, sage sir, you have not sufficient respect for the
imagination—I could prove to you in a trice that it is the mother of
sentiment, the great distinction of our nature, the only purifier of the
passions—animals have a portion of reason, and equal, if not more
exquisite, senses; but no trace of imagination, or her offspring taste,
appears in any of their actions. The impulse of the senses, passions, if
you will, and the conclusions of reason draw men together; but the
imagination is the true fire, stolen from heaven to animate this cold
creature of clay, producing all those fine sympathies that lead to
rapture, rendering men social by expanding their hearts instead of
leaving them leisure to calculate how many comforts society affords.
If you call these observations romantic, a phrase in this place which
would be tantamount to nonsensical, I shall be apt to retort, that you
are embruted by trade, and the vulgar enjoyments of life—Bring me then
back your barrier face, or you shall have nothing to say to my
barrier-girl; and I shall fly from you to cherish the remembrances that
will be ever dear to me; for I am yours truly
* * * *