July 4.
I hope to hear from you by to-morrow’s mail. My dearest friend! I cannot
tear my affections from you—and, though every remembrance stings me to
the soul, I think of you, till I make allowance for the very defects of
character, that have given such a cruel stab to my peace.
Still however I am more alive than you have seen me for a long, long
time. I have a degree of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable
to the benumbing stupour that, for the last year, has frozen up all my
faculties.—Perhaps this change is more owing to returning health, than
to the vigour of my reason—for, in spite of sadness (and surely I have
had my share,) the purity of this air, and the being continually out in
it, for I sleep in the country every night, has made an alteration in my
appearance that really surprises me.—The rosy fingers of health already
streak my cheeks—and I have seen a _physical_ life in my eyes, after I
have been climbing the rocks, that resembled the fond, credulous hopes
of youth.
With what a cruel sigh have I recollected that I had forgotten to hope!
Reason, or rather experience, does not thus cruelly damp poor ——’s
pleasures; she plays all day in the garden with ——’s children, and makes
friends for herself.
Do not tell me, that you are happier without us—Will you not come to us
in Switzerland? Ah! why do not you love us with much more sentiment?—why
are you a creature of such sympathy that the warmth of your feelings, or
rather quickness of your senses, hardens your heart? It is my
misfortune, that my imagination is perpetually shading your defects, and
lending you charms, whilst the grossness of your senses makes you (call
me not vain) overlook graces in me, that only dignity of mind, and the
sensibility of an expanded heart can give.—God bless you! Adieu.