_To the Same_
Nov. 3.
What is it, my friend, that makes thy influence over me so absolute? No
resolution of mine can stand against your remonstrances. A single word, a
look, approving or condemning, transforms me into a new creature. The
dread of having offended you gives me the most pungent distress. Your
"well done" lifts me above all reproach. It is only when you are distant,
when your verdict is uncertain, that I shrink from contumely,--that the
scorn of the world, though unmerited, is a load too heavy for my
strength.
Methinks I should be a strange creature if left to myself. A very
different creature, doubtless, I should have been, if placed under any
other guidance. So easily swayed am I by one that is lord of my
affections. No will, no reason, have I of my own.
Such sudden and total transitions! In solitude I ruminate and form my
schemes. They seem to me unalterable: yet a word from you scatters all my
laboured edifices, and I look back upon my former state of mind as on
something that passed when I was a lunatic or dreaming.
It is but a day since I determined to part with you,--since a thousand
tormenting images engrossed my imagination: yet now am I quite changed; I
am bound to you by links stronger than ever. No, I will not part with
you.
Yet how shall I excuse my non-compliance to my mother? I have told her
that I would come to her, that I waited only for her directions as to the
disposal of her property. What will be her disappointment when I tell her
that I will not come!--when she finds me, in spite of her remonstrances,
still faithful to my engagements to thee!
Is there no method of removing this aversion? of outrooting this deadly
prejudice? And must I, in giving myself to thee, forfeit her
affection?
And now--this dreadful charge! no wonder that her affectionate heart
was sorely wounded by such seeming proofs of my wickedness.
I thought at first--shame upon my inconsistent character, my incurable
blindness! I should never have doubted the truth of my first thoughts, if
you had not helped me to a more candid conjecture. I was unjust enough to
load _him_ with the guilt of this plot against me, and imagined there
was duty in forbearing to detect it.
Now, by thy means, do I judge otherwise. Yet how, my friend, shall I
unravel this mystery? My heart is truly sad. How easily is my woman's
courage lowered, and how prone am I to despond!
Lend me thy aid, thy helping hand, my beloved. Decide and act for me,
and be my weakness fortified, my hope restored, by thee. Let me lose all
separate feelings, all separate existence, and let me know no principle of
action but the decision of your judgment, no motive or desire but to
please, to gratify you.
Our marriage, you say, will facilitate reconcilement with my mother. Do
you think so? Then let it take place, my dear Hal. Heaven permit that
marriage may tend to reconcile! but, let it reconcile or not, if the wish
be yours it shall occupy the chief place in my heart. The time, the
manner, be it yours to prescribe. My happiness, on that event, will surely
want but little to complete it; and, if you bid me not despair of my
mother's acquiescence, I _will_ not despair.
I am to send your letter, after reading, to my mother, I suppose. I
have read it, Hal, more than once. And for my sake thou declinest her
offers! When you thus refuse no sacrifice on my account, shall I hesitate
when it becomes my turn? Shall I ever want gratitude, thinkest thou? Shall
I ever imagine that I have done enough to evince my gratitude?
But how do I forget thy present situation! Thy dying friend has
scarcely occurred to me. Thy afflictions, thy fatigues, are absorbed in my
own selfish cares.
I am very often on the brink of hating myself. So much thoughtlessness
of others; such callousness to sorrows not my own: my hard heart has often
reproached thee for sparing a sigh or a wish from me; that every gloom has
not been dispelled by my presence, was treason, forsooth, against my
majesty, and the murmurs that delighted love should breathe, to welcome
thy return, were changed into half-vindictive reluctance,--not quite a
frown,--and upbraidings, in which tenderness was almost turned out of door
by anger.
In the present case, for instance, I have scarcely thought of thy dying
friend once. How much thy disquiets would be augmented by the letters
which I sent thee, never entered my thoughts. To hide our sorrows from
those who love us seems to be no more than generous. Yet I never hid any
thing from thee. All was uttered that was felt. I considered not attending
circumstances. The bird, as soon as it was scared, flew into the bosom
that was nearest, and, merely occupied with dangers of its own, was
satisfied to find a refuge there.
_And yet_--See now, Vanity, the cunning advocate, entering with
his _And yet_. Would I listen to him, what a world of palliations and
apologies would he furnish! How would he remind me of cases in which my
sympathy was always awakened with attention! How often--But I will not
listen to the flatterer.
And, now I think of it, Hal, you differ from me very much in that
respect. Every mournful secret must be wrung from you. You hoard up all
your evil thoughts, and brood over them alone. Nothing but earnest
importunity ever got from you any of your griefs.
Now, this is cruel to yourself and unjust to me. It is denying my claim
to confidence. It is holding back from me a part of yourself. It is
setting light by my sympathy.
And yet--the prater Vanity once more, you see: but I will let him speak
out this time. Here his apology is yours, and myself am only flattered
indirectly.
And yet, when I have extorted from you any secret sorrow, you have
afterwards acknowledged that the disclosure was of use:--that my
sympathizing love was grateful to you, and my counsel of some value; that
you drew from my conduct on those occasions new proofs of my strength of
mind, and of my right--a right which my affection for you gave me--to
share with you all your thoughts.
Yet, on the next occasion that offers, you are sure to relapse into
your habitual taciturnity, and my labours to subdue it are again to be
repeated. I have sometimes been tempted to retaliate, and convince you, by
the effects of my concealments upon you, of the error of your own
scheme.
But I never could persist in silence for five minutes together. Shut up
as the temple of my heart is to the rest of mankind, all its doors fly
open of their own accord when you approach.
Now am I got into my usual strain; in which I could persevere forever.--No
wonder it charms me so much, since, while thus pursuing it, I lose all
my cares in a sweet oblivion; but I must stop at last, and recall my
thoughts to a less welcome subject.
Painful as it is, I must write to my mother. I will do it now, and send
you my letter. I will endeavour, hereafter, to keep alive a salutary
distrust of myself, and do nothing without your approbation and direction.
Such submission becomes thy