July 30.
I have just received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of
June; and you must have received several from me, informing you of my
detention, and how much I was hurt by your silence.
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Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have suffered, God
knows, since I left you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness
of heart! My mind however is at present painfully active, and the
sympathy I feel almost rises to agony. But this is not a subject of
complaint, it has afforded me pleasure, and reflected pleasure is all I
have to hope for—if a spark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom.
I will try to write with a degree of composure. I wish for us to live
together, because I want you to acquire an habitual tenderness for my
poor girl. I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or
that she should only be protected by your sense of duty. Next to
preserving her, my most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace. I
have nothing to expect, and little to fear, in life. There are wounds
that can never be healed, but they may be allowed to fester in silence
without wincing.
When we meet again, you shall be convinced that I have more resolution
than you give me credit for. I will not torment you. If I am destined
always to be disappointed and unhappy, I will conceal the anguish I
cannot dissipate; and the tightened cord of life or reason will at last
snap, and set me free.
Yes; I shall be happy—This heart is worthy of the bliss its feelings
anticipate—and I cannot even persuade myself, wretched as they have made
me, that my principles and sentiments are not founded in nature and
truth. But to have done with these subjects.
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I have been seriously employed in this way since I came to ——; yet I
never was so much in the air. I walk, I ride on horseback—row, bathe,
and even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently improved. The
child, —— informs me, is well. I long to be with her.
Write to me immediately—were I only to think of myself, I could wish you
to return to me, poor, with the simplicity of character, part of which
you seem lately to have lost, that first attached to you
Yours most affectionately
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I have been subscribing other letters—so I mechanically did the same to
yours.