_[Hull] Friday, June 12 [1795]._
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 lends
its magic wand, to convert appetite 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 for the beauties of nature, of which the common herd of eaters and
drinkers and _child-begeters_, 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 stray 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 yet say when the vessel will sail in which I have determined to
depart.
_[Hull, June 13, 1795]
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]
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
MARY.
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!