January 9.
I just now received one of your hasty _notes_; for business so entirely
occupies you, that you have not time, or sufficient command of thought,
to write letters. Beware! you seem to be got into a whirl of projects
and schemes, which are drawing you into a gulph, that, if it do not
absorb your happiness, will infallibly destroy mine.
Fatigued during my youth by the most arduous struggles, not only to
obtain independence, but to render myself useful, not merely pleasure,
for which I had the most lively taste, I mean the simple pleasures that
flow from passion and affection, escaped me, but the most melancholy
views of life were impressed by a disappointed heart on my mind. Since I
knew you, I have been endeavouring to go back to my former nature, and
have allowed some time to glide away, winged with the delight which only
spontaneous enjoyment can give. Why have you so soon dissolved the
charm?
I am really unable to bear the continual inquietude which your and ——’s
never-ending plans produce. This you may term want of firmness—but you
are mistaken—I have still sufficient firmness to pursue my principle of
action. The present misery, I cannot find a softer word to do justice to
my feelings, appears to me unnecessary—and therefore I have not firmness
to support it as you may think I ought. I should have been content, and
still wish, to retire with you to a farm—My God! any thing, but these
continual anxieties—any thing but commerce, which debases the mind, and
roots out affection from the heart.
I do not mean to complain of subordinate inconveniences——yet I will
simply observe, that, led to expect you every week, I did not make the
arrangements required by the present circumstances, to procure the
necessaries of life. In order to have them, a servant, for that purpose
only, is indispensible—The want of wood, has made me catch the most
violent cold I ever had; and my head is so disturbed by continual
coughing, that I am unable to write without stopping frequently to
recollect myself.—This however is one of the common evils which must be
borne with——bodily pain does not touch the heart though it fatigues the
spirits.
Still as you talk of your return, even in February, doubtingly, I have
determined, the moment the weather changes, to wean my child. It is too
soon for her to begin to divide sorrow!—And as one has well said,
“despair is a freeman,” we will go and seek our fortune together.
This is not a caprice of the moment—for your absence has given new
weight to some conclusions, that I was very reluctantly forming before
you left me.—I do not chuse to be a secondary object. If your feelings
were in unison with mine, you would not sacrifice so much to visionary
prospects of future advantage.
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