Saturday Night.
I am a mere animal, and instinctive emotions too often silence the
suggestions of reason. Your note—I can scarcely tell why, hurt me—and
produced a kind of winterly smile, which diffuses a beam of despondent
tranquillity over the features. I have been very ill—Heaven knows it was
more than fancy. After some sleepless, wearisome nights, towards the
morning I have grown delirious.—Last Thursday, in particular, I imagined
—— was thrown into great distress by his folly; and I, unable to assist
him, was in an agony. My nerves were in such a painful state of
irritation—I suffered more than I can express. Society was necessary—and
might have diverted me till I gained more strength; but I blushed when I
recollect how often I had teazed you with childish complaints, and the
reveries of a disordered imagination. I even _imagined_ that I intruded
on you, because you never called on me—though you perceived that I was
not well.—I have nourished a sickly kind of delicacy, which gives me
many unnecessary pangs. I acknowledge that life is but a jest—and often
a frightful dream—yet catch myself every day searching for something
serious—and feel real misery from the disappointment. I am a strange
compound of weakness and resolution. However, if I must suffer, I will
endeavour to suffer in silence. There is certainly a great defect in my
mind—my wayward heart creates its own misery—Why I am made thus I cannot
tell; and, till I can form some idea of the whole of my existence, I
must be content to weep and dance like a child—long for a toy, and be
tired of it as soon as I get it.
We must each of us wear a fool’s cap; but mine, alas! has
lost its bells, and grown so heavy, I find it intolerably
troublesome.——Goodnight! I have been pursuing a number of strange
thoughts since I began to write, and have actually both wept and laughed
immoderately—Surely I am a fool—