December 28.
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I do, my love, indeed sincerely sympathize with you in all your
disappointments.—Yet, knowing that you are well, and think of me with
affection, I only lament other disappointments, because I am sorry that
you should thus exert your self in vain, and that you are kept from me.
——, I know, urges you to stay, and is continually branching out into new
projects, because he has the idle desire to amass a large fortune,
rather an immense one, merely to have the credit of having made it. But
we who are governed by other motives, ought not to be led on by him.
When we meet we will discuss this subject—You will listen to reason, and
it has probably occurred to you, that it will be better, in future, to
pursue some sober plan, which may demand more time, and still enable you
to arrive at the same end. It appears to me absurd to waste life in
preparing to live.
Would it not now be possible to arrange your business in such a manner
as to avoid the inquietudes, of which I have had my share since your
departure? It is not possible to enter into business, as an employment
necessary to keep the faculties awake, and (to sink a little in the
expressions) the pot boiling, without suffering what must ever be
considered as a secondary object, to engross the mind, and drive
sentiment and affection out of the heart?
I am in a hurry to give this letter to the person who has promised to
forward it with ——’s. I wish then to counteract, in some measure, what
he has doubtless recommended most warmly.
Stay, my friend, whilst it is _absolutely_ necessary.—I will give you no
tenderer name, though it glows at my heart, unless you come the moment
the settling the _present_ objects permit. _I do not consent_ to your
taking any other journey—or the little woman and I will be off, the Lord
knows where. But, as I had rather owe every thing to your affection,
and, I may add, to your reason, (for this immoderate desire of wealth,
which makes —— so eager to have you remain, is contrary to your
principles of action), I will not importune you.—I will only tell you
that I long to see you—and, being at peace with you, I shall be hurt,
rather than made angry by delays. Having suffered so much in life, do
not be surprized if I sometimes, when left to myself, grow gloomy, and
suppose that it was all a dream, and that my happiness is not to last. I
say happiness, because remembrance retrenches all the dark shades of the
picture.
My little one begins to shew her teeth, and use her legs.—She wants you
to bear your part in the nursing business, for I am fatigued with
dancing her, and, yet she is not satisfied—she wants you to thank her
mother for taking such care of her, as you only can.
Yours truly
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