Friday June 12.
I have just received yours, dated the 9th, which I suppose was a
mistake, for it could scarcely have loitered so long on the road. The
general observations which apply to the state of your own mind, appear
to me just, as far as they go; and I shall always consider it as one of
the most serious misfortunes of my life, that I did not meet you, before
satiety had rendered your senses so fastidious, as almost to close up
every tender avenue of sentiment and affection that leads to your
sympathetic heart. You have a heart, my friend, yet, hurried away by the
impetuosity of inferior feelings, you have sought in vulgar excesses,
for that gratification which only the heart can bestow.
The common run of men, I know, with strong health and gross appetites,
must have variety to banish _ennui_, because the imagination never leads
its magic wand, to convert people into love, cemented by according
reason.—Ah! my friend, you know not the ineffable delight, the exquisite
pleasure, which arises from a unison of affection and desire, when the
whole soul and senses are abandoned to a lively imagination, that
renders every emotion delicate and rapturous. Yes; these are emotions
over which satiety has no power, and the recollection of which, even
disappointment cannot disenchant; but they do not exist without
self-denial. These emotions, more or less strong, appear to me to be the
distinctive characteristic of genius, the foundation of taste, and of
that exquisite relish of the beauties of nature, of which the common
herd of eaters and drinkers and _child-begetters_, certainly have no
idea. You will smile at an observation that has just occurred to me: I
consider those minds as the most strong and original, whose imagination
acts as the stimulus to their senses.
Well! you will ask, what is the result of all this reasoning? Why I
cannot help thinking that it is possible for you, having great strength
of mind, to return to nature, and regain a sanity of constitution, and
purity of feeling—which would open your heart to me.——I would fain rest
there!
Yet, convinced more than ever of the sincerity and tenderness of my
attachment to you, the involuntary hopes, which a determination to live
has revived, are not sufficiently strong to dissipate the cloud, that
despair has spread over futurity. I have looked at the sea, and at my
child, hardly daring to own to myself the secret wish, that it might
become our tomb; and that the heart, still so alive to anguish, might
there be quieted by death. At this moment ten thousand complicated
sentiments press for utterance, weigh on my heart, and obscure my sight.
Are we ever to meet again? and will you endeavour to render that meeting
happier than the last? Will you endeavour to restrain your caprices, in
order to give vigour to affection, and to give play to the checked
sentiments that nature intended should expand your heart? I cannot
indeed, without agony, think of your bosom’s being continually
contaminated; and bitter are the tears which exhaust my eyes, when I
recollect why my child and I are forced to stay from the asylum, in
which, after so many storms, I had hoped to rest, smiling at angry
fate.—These are not common sorrows; nor can you perhaps conceive, how
much active fortitude it requires to labour perpetually to blunt the
shafts of disappointment.
Examine now yourself, and ascertain whether you can live in something
like a settled stile. Let our confidence in future be unbounded;
consider whether you find it necessary to sacrifice me to what you term
“the zest of life;” and, when you have once a clear view of your own
motives, of your own incentive to action, do not deceive me!
The train of thoughts which the writing of this epistle awoke, makes me
so wretched, that I must take a walk to rouse and calm my mind. But
first, let me tell you, that, if you really wish to promote my
happiness, you will endeavour to give me as much as you can of yourself.
You have great mental energy; and your judgment seems to me so just,
that it is only the dupe of your inclination in discussing one subject.
The post does not go out to-day. To-morrow I may write more tranquilly.
I cannot say when the vessel will sail in which I have determined to
depart.
* * * * *
Saturday Morning.
Your second letter reached me about an hour ago. You were certainly
wrong in supposing that I did not mention you with respect; though,
without my being conscious of it, some sparks of resentment may have
animated the gloom of despair—Yes; with less affection, I should have
been more respectful. However the regard which I have for you, is so
unequivocal to myself, I imagine that it must be sufficiently obvious to
every body else. Besides, the only letter I intended for the public eye
was to ——, and that I destroyed from delicacy before you saw them,
because it was only written (of course warmly in your praise) to prevent
any odium being thrown on you[11].
Footnote 11:
This passage refers to letters written under a purpose of suicide, and
not intended to be opened till after the catastrophe.
I am harrassed by your embarrassments, and shall certainly use all my
efforts to make the business terminate to your satisfaction in which I
am engaged.
My friend—my dearest friend—I feel my fate united to yours by the most
sacred principles of my soul, and the yearns of—yes, I will say it—a
true, unsophisticated heart.
Yours most truly
* * * *
If the wind be fair, the captain talks of sailing on Monday; but I am
afraid I shall be detained some days longer. At any rate, continue to
write, (I want this support) till you are sure I am where I cannot
expect a letter; and, if any should arrive after my departure, a
gentleman (not Mr. ——’s friend, I promise you) from whom I have received
great civilities, will send them after me.
Do write by every occasion! I am anxious to hear how your affairs go on;
and, still more, to be convinced that you are not separating yourself
from us. For my little darling is calling papa, and adding her parrot
word—Come, Come! And will you not come, and let us exert ourselves?—I
shall recover all my energy, when I am convinced that my exertions will
draw us more closely together. Once more adieu!