February 9.
The melancholy presentiment has for some time hung on my spirits, that
we were parted for ever; and the letters I received this day, by Mr. ——,
convince me that it was not without foundation. You allude to some other
letters, which I suppose have miscarried; for most of those I have got,
were only a few hasty lines, calculated to wound the tenderness the
sight of the superscriptions excited.
I mean not however to complain; yet so many feelings are struggling for
utterance, and agitating a heart almost bursting with anguish, that I
find it very difficult to write with any degree of coherence.
You left me indisposed, though you have taken no notice of it; and the
most fatiguing journey I ever had, contributed to continue it. However,
I recovered my health; but a neglected cold, and continual inquietude
during the last two months, have reduced me to a state of weakness I
never before experienced. Those who did not know that the canker-worm
was at work at the core, cautioned me about suckling my child too long.
God preserve this poor child and render her happier than her mother!
But I am wandering from my subject: indeed my head turns giddy, when I
think that all the confidence I have had in the affection of others is
come to this. I did not expect this blow from you. I have done my duty
to you and my child; and if I am not to have any return of affection to
reward me, I have the sad consolation of knowing that I deserved a
better fate. My soul is weary—I am sick at heart; and but for this
little darling I would cease to care about a life, which is now stripped
of every charm.
You see how stupid I am, uttering declamation, when I meant simply to
tell you, that I consider your requesting me to come to you, as merely
dictated by honor. Indeed, I scarcely understand you. You request me to
come, and then tell me that you have not given up all thoughts of
returning to this place.
When I determined to live with you, I was only governed by affection. I
would share poverty with you, but I turn with affright from the sea of
trouble on which you are entering. I have certain principles of action:
I know what to look for to found my happiness on. It is not money. With
you I wished for sufficient to procure the comforts of life—as it is,
less will do.—I can still exert myself to obtain the necessaries of life
for my child, and she does not want more at present. I have two or three
plans in my head to earn our subsistence; for do not suppose that,
neglected by you, I will lie under obligations of a pecuniary kind to
you!—No; I would sooner submit to menial service. I wanted the support
of your affection—that gone, all is over!—I did not think, when I
complained of ——’s contemptible avidity to accumulate money, that he
would have dragged you into his schemes.
I cannot write. I enclose a fragment of a letter written soon after your
departure, and another which tenderness made me keep back when it was
written. You will see then the sentiments of a calmer, though not a more
determined moment. Do not insult me by saying, that “our being together
is paramount to every other consideration!” Were it, you would not be
running after a bubble at the expence of my peace of mind.
Perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive from me.
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