CLOUDS.
On the 15th June she tore herself away from all these “private” and
“public marks of gratifying suffrages,” and again paid a visit to Dublin,
which at the beginning was more successful than her former one, but
towards the end was clouded with untoward circumstances, which militated
against her for the whole of her professional career.
This time she became the guest of her former friend Miss Boyle, now
become Mrs. O’Neil of Shane’s Castle. The Lord-Lieutenant welcomed her
as if she were some “great lady of rank,” and she tells us how she
was received “by all the _first families_ with the most flattering
hospitality, and the days I passed with them will be ever remembered
among the most pleasurable of my life.” She paid a visit to Shane’s
Castle. “I have not words to describe the beauty and splendour of this
enchanting place, which, I am sorry to say, has since been levelled to
the earth by a tremendous fire. Here were often assembled all the talent,
and rank, and beauty of Ireland. Among the persons of the Leinster family
whom I met here was poor Lord Edward Fitzgerald, the most amiable,
honourable, though misguided youth I ever knew.
“The luxury of this establishment almost inspired the recollections
of an Arabian Night’s entertainment. Six or eight carriages, with a
numerous throng of lords and ladies on horseback, began the day by making
excursions around this terrestrial paradise, returning home just in time
to dress for dinner. The table was served with a profusion and elegance
to which I have never seen anything comparable. The sideboards were
decorated with adequate magnificence, on which appeared several immense
silver flagons containing claret. A fine band of musicians played during
the whole of the repast. They were stationed in the corridors, which led
into a fine conservatory, where we plucked our dessert from numerous
trees of the most exquisite fruits. The foot of the conservatory was
washed by the waves of a superb lake, from which the cool and pleasant
wind came, to murmur in concert with the harmony from the corridor. The
graces of the presiding genius, the lovely mistress of the mansion,
seemed to blend with the whole scene.”
These Arabian Nights’ entertainments, delightful as they may have been,
were calculated to make her very unpopular with her profession. Stories
about her fine-lady airs were freely circulated, to which her own want
of tact, and the injudicious behaviour of her husband, gave a certain
foundation.
One of these that was actually believed, and copied into the London
papers, was to the effect that, having been persuaded to visit the
studio of a certain Mr. Home, a local artist, he asked her to sit to
him. “Impossible,” was the reply, “I can hardly find time to sit to
Sir Joshua Reynolds.” The offended artist insinuated that her refusal
would not ruin him; upon which she was said to have boxed his ears and
stormed out of the house. This is so palpably ill-natured, and from a
knowledge of Mrs. Siddons’s character so improbable, that we only give
it, among a mass of other evidence, to show how the feeling against her
gradually arose, which, to a certain extent, was destined to pursue her
through life. Mr. Siddons’s good sense did not materially aid her. On one
occasion, dining, in company with John Kemble, at the house of a Dublin
merchant, their host expressed a great wish to be introduced to the young
actress. “I should like to very much, but do not know how to break the
matter to her,” was the husband’s reply, which, we must confess, was not
calculated to increase the geniality of feeling entertained for her in
general society. She managed also to offend the manager, Mr. Daly, who
by all accounts was not an agreeable person, for we read in Bernard’s
_Reminiscences_ that he was an extremely vain, jealous-tempered man,
proud of his acting and good looks. Mrs. Siddons insinuates that his
dislike arose to her scornful rejection of attentions he endeavoured
to press upon her. However that may be, the following is her own
account of the manner in which he first showed his enmity, and gives a
curious insight into the wretched bickerings and heart-burnings of the
profession:—
“The manager of the theatre also very soon began to adopt every means of
vexation for me that he could possibly devise, merely because I chose
to suggest at rehearsal that his proper situation, as Falconbridge in
_King John_, was at the right hand of the King. During the scene between
Constance and Austria, he thought it necessary that he should, though
he did it most ungraciously, adopt this arrangement; but his malevolence
pursued me unremittedly from that moment. He absurdly fancied that he was
of less consequence when placed at so great a distance from the front
of the stage, at the ends of which the kings were seated; but he had
little or nothing to say, and his being in the front would have greatly
interrupted and diminished the effect of Constance’s best scene. He made
me suffer, however, sufficiently for my personality by employing all the
newspapers to abuse and annoy me the whole time I remained in Dublin, and
to pursue me to England with malignant scandal; but of that anon. The
theatre, meantime, was attended to his heart’s content—indeed, the whole
of this engagement was as profitable as my most sanguine hopes could have
anticipated.”
Presently, however, she was to be put on her trial for a more serious
charge. The unfortunate actor, Digges, while rehearsing with her, was
struck down with paralysis. Lee Lewes, who endeavours to defend her in
all this business, tells us that her engagement was then drawing to a
close, and she was announced to play at Cork a few days after. Asked
to perform in a benefit for the poor man, she replied that she was
sorry she had but one night to spare, and had already promised to play
for the Marshalsea pensioners. Thinking better of this determination,
however, later, she despatched “a messenger” to Digges, saying she
had reconsidered the matter, and would be glad to perform for him.
Digges expressed his gratitude, and the night and play were fixed; but,
according to her own evidence, everything was done to annoy her and
prevent the carrying out of her charitable intentions. This is her
account of the business:—
“When my visit to Shane Castle was over, I entered into another
engagement in Dublin. Among the actors was Mr. Digges, who had formerly
held a high rank in the drama, but who was now by age and infirmity
reduced to a subordinate and mortifying situation. It occurred to me
that I might be of some use to him if I could persuade the manager to
give him a night, and the actors to perform for him, at the close of
my engagement; but when I proposed my request to the manager (Daly
declares, as we shall see, that the proposal came from him, and not
from her), he told me it could not be, because the whole company would
be obliged to leave the Dublin theatre in order to open the theatre at
Limerick, but that he would lend the house for my purpose if I could
procure a sufficient number of actors to perform a play. By indefatigable
labour, and in spite of cruel annoyances, Mr. Siddons and myself got
together, from all the little country theatres, as many as would enable
us to attempt _Venice Preserved_. Oh! to be sure it was a scene of
disgust and confusion. I acted Belvidera, without having ever previously
seen the face of one of the actors—for there was no time for even one
rehearsal—but the motive procured us indulgence. Poor Mr. Digges was most
materially benefited by this most ludicrous performance, and I put my
disgust into my pocket since money passed into his. Thus ended my Irish
engagement, but not so my persecution by the manager, at whose instance
the newspapers were filled with the most unjust and malignant reflections
on me. All the time I was on a visit of some length to the Dowager
Duchess of Leinster, unconscious of the gathering storm, whilst the
public mind was imbibing poisonous prejudices against me. Alas for those
who subsist by the stability of public favour!”
The above was written by Mrs. Siddons in later days, and is eminently
unsatisfactory from every point of view. The dragging in of the
Dowager Duchess of Leinster, when we want a plain statement of facts,
is irritating, and the complaint against public favour at the end is
stilted and artificial. No doubt the manager was unfriendly, but her
first impulse was not a generous one, and she laid herself open to
ill-natured constructions being put on her conduct. The real story we
take to be this: Digges (to whom she was not particularly inclined to be
friendly, owing to her attributing to him the authorship of the satirical
criticisms on her acting when she first arrived in Ireland) was struck
down by illness, in a manner and under circumstances to arouse the
deep sympathy of the members of his profession, ever charitable to one
another. Daly, the manager, before communicating with Digges, asked Mr.
Siddons if his wife would give her services for a benefit. He, instigated
of course by her, refused the request. On this refusal, not unjustly,
were based all the charges brought against her. Daly then offered to pay
for her services; this also was refused, and nothing further was done
until Mrs. Siddons, finding the whole affair unfavourably canvassed,
sent Mr. Siddons to inform Digges that she had arranged to play for his
benefit. This graciousness came too late; the rumour of her refusal had
already got abroad, and very unfavourable comments were made both by the
press and the public. The annoyance also caused her by the inefficient
representation of _Venice Preserved_ might have been avoided if she had
at once acceded to Daly’s request. As it was, the whole company had been
obliged to leave for the opening of the Limerick Theatre. She and Mr.
Siddons, therefore, were obliged to get together a scratch company, and
give the benefit after the season was over, which could not have been
nearly so advantageous to the object of the charity. Money was made,
but not so much as if she had acted in the middle of the season. We can
hardly believe she was actuated in all this by love of money; it is more
likely that the proud resentment she felt when unfavourably criticised in
any way had interfered with her kindlier impulse.
In the case of Brereton, the same unfortunate sensitiveness seems to have
been at work. Brereton was the leading actor of her troupe, always played
lover to her heroine, and, it was said, had at one time made his love
in so earnest a fashion, that the beautiful actress had, as in the case
of Daly, to check his ardour, or, as Boaden expresses it, “in kindling
his imagination the divinity unsettled his reason, and in clasping the
goddess he became sensible of the charms of the woman.” However this may
be, Brereton was by no means friendly, and never missed an opportunity of
covertly attacking her. When asked, therefore, to play for his benefit,
she actually deducted ten pounds from the profits as her own emolument.
Percy Fitzgerald seems inclined to think that “all this wretched muddle
was the work of Mr. Siddons, who, considering the charitable taxes laid
on her, and the many benefits she had to assist, found himself obliged,
like most husbands of money-getting actresses, to bargain and chaffer for
her gifts as if they were wares, and get as much money as they could be
made to bring in.”
But we think that at no time of their married life had Siddons enough
influence to induce her to do anything against her better judgment, and
we doubt very much whether he was ever allowed to complete a bargain
of any kind, although his name was frequently used. What aroused the
sympathy of the public more warmly in the cause of Brereton was the
madness that subsequently fell upon him.
The best side of her character was ever called out by adversity. It was
perhaps undignified to defend herself as she did—or, rather, as Siddons
did in her name—by an exculpatory letter to the papers, appealing to
the two actors, Digges and Brereton, to declare whether she had, or had
not, played for them when asked. Two letters were thus extorted from
them declaring that she had done all that was necessary to satisfy the
calls of charity, &c. Nothing could be conceived more fatal to her cause
than all this bandying of evidence. The idol men set up to worship they
generally delight to drag down and trample under foot if they dare. In
this case, however, they might insult and humiliate, but they could not
drag their victim from the high estate she had achieved.
Her very high qualities as a wife and mother, her decorum of conduct,
so different to others of her profession, seemed to add a zest to the
acrimony with which they assaulted her. The first part in which she
appeared on the London boards after her return from Dublin was Mrs.
Beverley in the _Gamester_ to her brother’s Stukeley. Hardly had the
curtain been raised, before a storm of hooting and hissing broke forth,
and she whom they had late proclaimed a queen, who had seen the town
enslaved at her feet, now stood “the object of public scorn.” She did the
best thing she could by remaining with perfect composure facing them,
but in those few dreadful moments she discounted all the adulation and
success she had enjoyed. How intense the suffering was we can see by the
account written years after.
“I had left London,” she tells us, “the object of universal approbation,
but, on my return, only a few weeks afterwards, I was received, on my
first night’s appearance, with universal opprobrium, accused of hardness
of heart, and total insensibility to everything and everybody except
my own interest. Unhappily, contrary winds had for some days precluded
the possibility of receiving from Dublin such letters as would have
refuted those atrocious calumnies, and saved me from the horrors of this
dreadful night, when I was received with hissing and hooting. Amidst
this afflicting clamour I made several attempts to be heard, when at
length a gentleman stood forth in the middle of the front of the pit,
impelled by benevolent and gentlemanly feeling, who, as I advanced to
make my last attempt at being heard, accosted me with these words: ‘For
Heaven’s sake, Madam, do not degrade yourself by an apology, for there is
nothing necessary to be said!’ I shall always look back with gratitude
to this gallant man’s solitary advocacy of my cause; like Abdiel,
‘faithful found; among the faithless, faithful only he.’ His admonition
was followed by reiterated clamour, when my dear brother appeared, and
carried me away from this scene of insult.
“The instant I quitted it I fainted in his arms; and, on my recovery,
I was thankful that my persecutors had not had the gratification of
beholding this weakness. After I was tolerably restored to myself, I was
induced, by the persuasions of my husband, my brother, and Mr. Sheridan,
to present myself again before that audience by whom I had been so
savagely treated, and before whom, but in consideration of my children,
I would have never appeared again. The play was _The Gamester_, which
commences with a scene between Beverley and Charlotte.
“Great and pleasant was my astonishment to find myself, on the second
rising of the curtain, received with a silence so profound that I was
absolutely awe-struck, and never yet have I been able to account for this
surprising contrast; for I really think that the falling of a pin might
have been then heard upon the stage.”
On her entrance the second time, Mrs. Siddons summoned enough courage to
address the audience:—
“Ladies and gentlemen, the kind and flattering partiality which I have
uniformly experienced in this place would make the present interruption
distressing to me indeed, were I in the slightest degree conscious of
having deserved your censure. I feel no such consciousness.
“The stories which have been circulated against me are calumnies. When
they shall be proved to be true, my aspersors will be justified; but,
till then, my respect for the public leads me to be confident that I
shall be protected from unmerited insult.”
These words, spoken by the Muse of Tragedy, with her stately dignity and
flaming eyes, had an instantaneous effect. She withdrew; the curtain fell.
King, the actor, came forward to beg the indulgence of the audience for a
few moments; and when she appeared again, pale but calm, not an attempt
at interruption was heard. On several occasions after, an attempt was
made to renew the interruption; but the orderly portion of the audience
was strong enough to quell it. She acknowledged the applause when she
came on, and endeavoured to appear perfectly indifferent to the hissing;
but all the triumphant confidence of the first days of success seemed
to have deserted her for the time, and she was again the uncertain,
tottering _débutante_. Her splendid genius was, however, but dimmed, and
all her suffering but lent to serve as a stepping-stone to a higher level
than she had yet attained. We must give here some letters she wrote to
her friends, the Whalleys, as giving an insight into that brave heart
of this wonderful woman, whose “victorious faith upheld her” in this
and many subsequent trials. What wonder, however, that in later years
she grew hard and proud—the first bloom of trust and belief was rubbed
off in these her first encounters with the rough judgment of the mob.
From henceforth the confiding girlish Ophelia and Juliet vanish from the
scene, and Lady Macbeth, with her fierce reliance on intellectual power
alone, and indignant scorn of all human judgment, appears. She wrote to
the Whalleys:—
“MY DEAREST FRIENDS,
“I hardly dare hope that you will remember me. I know I don’t
deserve that you should; but I know, also, that you are too
steadfast and too good to cast me off for a seeming negligence
to which my heart and soul are averse, and the appearance
of which I have incessantly regretted. What can I say in
my defence? I have been very unhappy; now ’tis over I will
venture to tell you so, that you may not ‘lose the dues of
rejoicing.’ ‘Envy, malice, detraction, all the fiends of hell
have compassed me round about to destroy me’; ‘but blessed be
God who hath given me the victory,’ &c. I have been charged
with almost everything bad, except incontinence, and it is
attributed to me as thinking a woman may be guilty of every
crime in the catalogue of crimes, provided she retain her
chastity.
“God help them and forgive them, they know but little of me.
I daresay you will wonder that a favourite should stand her
ground so long; and in truth so do I. I have been degraded; I
am now again the favourite servant of the public, and I have
kept the noiseless tenor of my temper in these extremes. My
spirit has been grieved, but my victorious faith upholds me.
I look forward to a better world for happiness, and am placed
in this in mercy to be a candidate for that. But what makes
the wound rankle deeper is that ingratitude, hypocrisy, and
perfidy have barbed the darts. But it is over, and I am happy.
Good God! what would I give to see you both, but for an hour!
How many thousand, thousand times do I wish myself with you,
and long to unburthen my heart to you. I can’t bear the idea
of your being so long absent. I know you will expect to hear
what I have been doing; and I wish I could do this to your
satisfaction. Suffice it to say that I have acted Lady Macbeth,
Desdemona, and several other things this season with the most
unbounded approbation; and you have no idea how the innocence
and playful simplicity of the latter have laid hold on the
hearts of the people. I am very much flattered by this, as
nobody ever has done anything with that character before. My
brother is charming in _Othello_; indeed, I must do the public
the justice to say that they have been extremely indulgent, if
not partial, to every character I have performed.
“I have never seen Mr. Pratt since I heard from you, but he
discovers his unworthiness to my own family; he abuses me,
it seems, to one of my sisters in the most complete manner.
How distressing is it to be so deceived! Our old Mary, too,
whom you must remember, has proved a very viper. She has
lately taken to drinking, has defrauded us of a great deal of
money given her to pay the tradespeople, and in her cups has
abused Mr. Siddons and me beyond all bounds; and I believe
in my soul that all the scandalous reports of Mr. Siddons’s
ill-treatment of me originated entirely in her. One may pay for
one’s experience, and the consciousness of acting rightly is a
comfort that hell-born malice cannot rob us of. Lady Langham
has done me the honour to call with her daughter. Her drawings
are very wonderful things for such a girl. In the compositions
she has drawn me in _Macbeth_ asleep and awake; but I think she
has been unsuccessful in this effort. Next week I shall see
your daughter and the rest. Sarah is an elegant creature, and
Maria is as beautiful as a seraph. Harry grows very awkward,
sensible, and well-disposed; and, thank God, we are all well. I
can stay no longer than to hope that you are both so, and happy
(see how disinterested I am!); that Reeves and the dear Paphy
are so too; and that you will love me, and believe me, with the
warmest and truest affection, unalterably and gratefully yours,
“S. SIDDONS.”
“My whole family desire the kindest remembrances. We have
bought a house in Gower Street, Bedford Square; the back of it
is most effectually in the country and delightfully pleasant.
“God bless you, my dear Mrs. Whalley! How perfectly do I see
you at this moment; and you, too, my dear friend, for it is
impossible to separate your images in my mind. Pray write to me
soon, and give me another instance of your unwearied kindness.
Adieu!”
We can see how bruised and sore her heart is. For the moment she thinks
all are conspiring to betray her.
The Mr. Pratt she alludes to was a Bath bookseller and dramatist, much
admired by his townsmen. This admiration was not shared by the managers
of Drury Lane, who would not allow Mrs. Siddons to act in his drama
the first year she appeared. She had already sacrificed herself to a
failure, _The Fatal Interview_, which had really injured her professional
reputation. Pratt maintained, however, she might have done him this
service had she been so minded. She herself writes kindly of the aspirant
to fame, but we can see his cause of irritation.
“Your letter,” she writes in 1783 to Dr. Whalley, “to poor Pratty is
lying on the table by me, and I am selfish enough to grudge it him from
the bottom of my heart, and yet I will not; for just now, poor soul, he
wants much comfort; therefore, let him take it, and God bless him with
it!”
And again:—
“_The Fatal Interview_ has been played three times, and is quite done
with; it was the dullest of all representations. Pratty’s Epilogue was
vastly applauded indeed. I shall take care how I get into such another
play; but I fancy the managers will take care of that, too. _They won’t
let me play in Pratty’s comedy._”
All this shows us how often she was the victim of undeserved resentment
on the part of slighted authors, and how, very often, the fact of doing
a kindness got her into trouble. She had accepted _The Fatal Interview_,
and now Pratt thought himself aggrieved that she would not do the same
for him. Most likely at any other time she would have shrugged her
shoulders at Pratt’s machinations, but everything now hurt her wounded
sensibilities.
“I must beg you will not mention (I believe I am giving an unnecessary
caution) anything I have told you concerning Mr. Pratt. I would not
wish him to know, by any means, that I have been informed of his last
unkindness, because it might prevent his asking me to do him a favour,
which I shall be at all times ready to grant, when in my power. I must
tell you that after the very unkind letter he sent me, in answer to mine
requesting the ten pounds, I never wrote to or heard from him until about
three months ago, when he wrote to me as if he had never offered such an
indignity, recommending a work he had just finished to my attention. He
did not tell me what this work was, but I had heard it was a tragedy. To
be made a convenient acquaintance only, did not much gratify me; but,
however, I wrote to say he knew the resolution I had been obliged to make
(having made many enemies by reading some, and not being able to give
time to read all tragedies) to read nobody’s tragedy, and then no one
could take offence; but that if it were accepted by the managers, and
there was anything that I could be of service to him in (doing justice to
myself), that I should be very happy to serve him. I have heard nothing
of him since that time till within these few days, when he wrote to my
sister Fanny, accusing me of ingratitude, and calling himself the ladder
upon which I have mounted to fame, and which I am kicking down.
“What he means by ingratitude I am at a loss to guess, and I fancy he
would be puzzled to explain; our obligations were always, I believe,
pretty mutual. However, in this letter to Fanny, he says he is going to
publish a poem called _Gratitude_, in which he means to show my avarice
and meanness, and all the rest of my amiable qualities to the world, for
having dropped him, as he calls it, so injuriously, and banishing him
my house. Now, as I hope for mercy, I permitted his visits at my house,
after having discovered that he was taking every possible method to
attach my sister to him, which, you may be sure, he took pains to conceal
from us, and I had him to my parties long after I made this discovery.
“In short, till he chose to write this letter, which I disdained to reply
to, he called as usual. He had the modesty to desist from calling on us
from that time, and now has the goodness to throw this unmerited obloquy
on me. I am so well convinced that a very plain tale will put him down,
that his intentions give me very little concern. I am only grieved to see
such daily instances of folly and wickedness in human nature.
“It is worth observing, too, that at the very time he chose to write
this agreeable letter, I was using my best influences with Mr. Siddons
to lend him the money I told you of before. I find he thinks it is not
very prudent to quarrel with me, but has the effrontery to think that I
should make advances toward our reconcilement; but I will die first.
‘My towering virtue, from the assurance of my merit, scorns to stoop so
low.’ If he should come round of himself (for I have learnt that best of
knowledge to forgive) I will, out of respect for what I believe he once
was, be of what service I can to him, for I believe he meant well at
one time, when I knew him first, and the noblest vengeance is the most
complete. Once more, your fingers on your lips, I pray.”
We should like to see less mention of benefits bestowed, the ten pounds
not mentioned; but this letter is a good specimen of the manner in which
she was worried by applicants, and shows how impossible it was for her to
satisfy them all.
The next is a regular eighteenth-century four-pager, but is so
characteristic, and so sincere and full of affection, that we cannot
help quoting it at the end of this chapter, as the best assurance of her
possession of that heart her enemies declared she did not possess.
“Mrs. Wapshawe has been so good as to bestow half an hour upon me.
She speaks of you as I should speak of you—as if she could not find
words, and as if her sentiments could not enough honour you both. If
you could look into the hearts of people, trust me, my beloved and ever
lamented friends, you would be convinced that mine yearns after you with
increasing and unutterable affection. See there now—how have I expressed
myself? That is always the way with me: when I speak or write to you, it
is always so inadequately, that I don’t do justice to myself; for I thank
God that I have a soul capable of loving you, and trust I shall find an
advocate in your bosom to assist my inability and simpleness. You know me
of old for a matter-of-fact woman.
“Mrs. Wapshawe has revived my hopes. She tells me that you will return
sooner than I hoped. Now I’ll begin my cottage again. It has been lying
in heaps a great while, and I have shed many tears over the ruins; but we
will build it up again in joy. You know the spot that I have fixed upon,
and I trust I have not forgotten the plan!
“Oh! what a reward for all that I have suffered, to retire to the
blessings of your society; for, indeed, my dear friends, I have paid
severely for my eminence, and have smarted with the undeserved pain that
should attend the guilty only; but it is the fate of office, and the
rough brake that virtue must go through; and sweet, ‘sweet are the uses
of adversity.’ I kiss the rod.
“Mrs. Wapshawe was quite delighted with Mr. Beach’s picture of you;
but she tells me that you wear coloured clothes and lace ruffles; and
I valued my picture more, if possible, for standing the test of such a
change as these (to me unusual) ornaments must necessarily make in you. I
think I shall long to strip you of these trappings.
“I am so attached to the garments I have been used to see you wear, and
think they harmonize so well with your face and person, that I should
wish them like their dear wearer, who is without change. I am proud
of your chiding, though God knows how unwillingly I would give you a
moment’s pain; nay, more, He knows that I neither go to bed, nor offer
prayers for blessings at His hands, in which your welfare does not make
an ardent petition. But why should I wound your friendly bosoms with the
relation of my vexations? I knew you too well to suppose you could hear
of my distresses without feeling them too poignantly.
“I resolved to write when I had overcome my enemies. You shall always
share my joys, but suffer me to keep my griefs from your knowledge. Now I
am triumphant, the favourite of the public again; and now you hear from
me.
“A strange capricious master is the public. However, one consolation
greater than any other, except one’s own approbation, has been that those
whose suffrages I esteemed most have, through all my troubles, clasped
me closer to their hearts; they have been the touchstone to prove who
were really my friends. You will believe me when I affirm that your
friendship, and my dear Mrs. Whalley’s, is an honour and a happiness I
would not forego for any earthly consideration. Tell my dearest Mrs.
Whalley that neither avocations nor indolence would have prevented your
hearing from me long ago but for the reasons already mentioned. I wrote
to you last Sunday, when I had not received your dear letters; so you
will do me the justice to remember that I was not reminded of you but by
my own heart, which, while it beats, will ever love you both with the
warmest and truest affection; however, as she is so seldom mistaken, we
shall have the honour and glory of laughing at her. Would to God I could
laugh with, or cry with, or anything with you, but for half an hour! To
say the truth, though, your tender reproaches gave me a melancholy which
I could not (and I don’t know if I wished it) shake off. Pray let me
hear from you very soon, and very often. I shall be a better woman, and
more worthy of your invaluable friendship, the more I converse with you.
Surely the converse of good and gentle spirits is the nearest approach
to Heaven that we can know; therefore, once more I beg that I may often
hear from you, and, if you do love me, do not think so unworthily of me
as to suppose my affection can, in the nature of things, ever know the
least abatement. I conjure you both to promise me this, for I cannot bear
it—indeed, I can’t!”