most fatiguing journey I ever had, contributed to continue it. However, I
recovered my health; but a neglected cold, and continual inquietude
during the last two months, have reduced me to a state of weakness I
never before experienced. Those who did not know that the canker-worm was
at work at the core, cautioned me about suckling my child too long.--God
preserve this poor child, and render her happier than her mother!
But I am wandering from my subject: indeed my head turns giddy, when I
think that all the confidence I have had in the affection of others is
come to this.
I did not expect this blow from you. I have done my duty to you and my
child; and if I am not to have any return of affection to reward me, I
have the sad consolation of knowing that I deserved a better fate. My
soul is weary--I am sick at heart; and, but for this little darling, I
would cease to care about a life, which is now stripped of every charm.
You see how stupid I am, uttering declamation, when I meant simply to
tell you, that I consider your requesting me to come to you, as merely
dictated by honour.--Indeed, I scarcely understand you.--You request me
to come, and then tell me, that you have not given up all thoughts of
returning to this place.
When I determined to live with you, I was only governed by affection.--I
would share poverty with you, but I turn with affright from the sea of
trouble on which you are entering.--I have certain principles of action:
I know what I look for to found my happiness on.--It is not money.--With
you I wished for sufficient to procure the comforts of life--as it is,
less will do.--I can still exert myself to obtain the necessaries of life
for my child, and she does not want more at present.--I have two or three
plans in my head to earn our subsistence; for do not suppose that,
neglected by you, I will lie under obligations of a pecuniary kind to
you!--No; I would sooner submit to menial service.--I wanted the support
of your affection--that gone, all is over!--I did not think, when I
complained of ----'s contemptible avidity to accumulate money, that he
would have dragged you into his schemes.
I cannot write.--I inclose a fragment of a letter, written soon after
your departure, and another which tenderness made me keep back when it
was written.--You will see then the sentiments of a calmer, though not a
more determined, moment.--Do not insult me by saying, that "our being
together is paramount to every other consideration!" Were it, you would
not be running after a bubble, at the expence of my peace of mind.
Perhaps this is the last letter you will ever receive from me.
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XXXVI.
Feb. 10.
YOU talk of "permanent views and future comfort"--not for me, for I am
dead to hope. The inquietudes of the last winter have finished the
business, and my heart is not only broken, but my constitution destroyed.
I conceive myself in a galloping consumption, and the continual anxiety I
feel at the thought of leaving my child, feeds the fever that nightly
devours me. It is on her account that I again write to you, to conjure
you, by all that you hold sacred, to leave her here with the German lady
you may have heard me mention! She has a child of the same age, and they
may be brought up together, as I wish her to be brought up. I shall
write more fully on the subject. To facilitate this, I shall give up my
present lodgings, and go into the same house. I can live much cheaper
there, which is now become an object. I have had 3000 livres from ----,
and I shall take one more, to pay my servant's wages, &c. and then I
shall endeavour to procure what I want by my own exertions. I shall
entirely give up the acquaintance of the Americans.
---- and I have not been on good terms a long time. Yesterday he very
unmanlily exulted over me, on account of your determination to stay. I
had provoked it, it is true, by some asperities against commerce, which
have dropped from me, when we have argued about the propriety of your
remaining where you are; and it is no matter, I have drunk too deep of
the bitter cup to care about trifles.
When you first entered into these plans, you bounded your views to the
gaining of a thousand pounds. It was sufficient to have procured a farm
in America, which would have been an independence. You find now that you
did not know yourself, and that a certain situation in life is more
necessary to you than you imagined--more necessary than an uncorrupted
heart--For a year or two, you may procure yourself what you call
pleasure; eating, drinking, and women; but, in the solitude of declining
life, I shall be remembered with regret--I was going to say with remorse,
but checked my pen.
As I have never concealed the nature of my connection with you, your
reputation will not suffer. I shall never have a confident: I am content
with the approbation of my own mind; and, if there be a searcher of
hearts, mine will not be despised. Reading what you have written relative
to the desertion of women, I have often wondered how theory and practice
could be so different, till I recollected, that the sentiments of
passion, and the resolves of reason, are very distinct. As to my sisters,
as you are so continually hurried with business, you need not write to
them--I shall, when my mind is calmer. God bless you! Adieu!
* * * *
This has been such a period of barbarity and misery, I ought not to
complain of having my share. I wish one moment that I had never heard of
the cruelties that have been practised here, and the next envy the
mothers who have been killed with their children. Surely I had suffered
enough in life, not to be cursed with a fondness, that burns up the vital
stream I am imparting. You will think me mad: I would I were so, that I
could forget my misery--so that my head or heart would be still.----
* * * * *
LETTER XXXVII.
Feb. 19.
WHEN I first received your letter, putting off your return to an
indefinite time, I felt so hurt, that I know not what I wrote. I am now
calmer, though it was not the kind of wound over which time has the
quickest effect; on the contrary, the more I think, the sadder I grow.
Society fatigues me inexpressibly--So much so, that finding fault with
every one, I have only reason enough, to discover that the fault is in
myself. My child alone interests me, and, but for her, I should not take
any pains to recover my health.
As it is, I shall wean her, and try if by that step (to which I feel a
repugnance, for it is my only solace) I can get rid of my cough.
Physicians talk much of the danger attending any complaint on the lungs,
after a woman has suckled for some months. They lay a stress also on the
necessity of keeping the mind tranquil--and, my God! how has mine been
harrassed! But whilst the caprices of other women are gratified, "the
wind of heaven not suffered to visit them too rudely," I have not found
a guardian angel, in heaven or on earth, to ward off sorrow or care from
my bosom.
What sacrifices have you not made for a woman you did not respect!--But I
will not go over this ground--I want to tell you that I do not understand
you. You say that you have not given up all thoughts of returning
here--and I know that it will be necessary--nay, is. I cannot explain
myself; but if you have not lost your memory, you will easily divine my
meaning. What! is our life then only to be made up of separations? and am
I only to return to a country, that has not merely lost all charms for
me, but for which I feel a repugnance that almost amounts to horror, only
to be left there a prey to it!
Why is it so necessary that I should return?--brought up here, my girl
would be freer. Indeed, expecting you to join us, I had formed some plans
of usefulness that have now vanished with my hopes of happiness.
In the bitterness of my heart, I could complain with reason, that I am
left here dependent on a man, whose avidity to acquire a fortune has
rendered him callous to every sentiment connected with social or
affectionate emotions.--With a brutal insensibility, he cannot help
displaying the pleasure your determination to stay gives him, in spite of
the effect it is visible it has had on me.
Till I can earn money, I shall endeavour to borrow some, for I want to
avoid asking him continually for the sum necessary to maintain me.--Do
not mistake me, I have never been refused.--Yet I have gone half a dozen
times to the house to ask for it, and come away without speaking----you
must guess why--Besides, I wish to avoid hearing of the eternal projects
to which you have sacrificed my peace--not remembering--but I will be
silent for ever.----
* * * * *
LETTER XXXVIII.
April 7.
HERE I am at H----, on the wing towards you, and I write now, only to
tell you, that you may expect me in the course of three or four days;
for I shall not attempt to give vent to the different emotions which
agitate my heart--You may term a feeling, which appears to me to be a
degree of delicacy that naturally arises from sensibility, pride--Still I
cannot indulge the very affectionate tenderness which glows in my bosom,
without trembling, till I see, by your eyes, that it is mutual.
I sit, lost in thought, looking at the sea--and tears rush into my eyes,
when I find that I am cherishing any fond expectations.--I have indeed
been so unhappy this winter, I find it as difficult to acquire fresh
hopes, as to regain tranquillity.--Enough of this--lie still, foolish
heart!--But for the little girl, I could almost wish that it should cease
to beat, to be no more alive to the anguish of disappointment.
Sweet little creature! I deprived myself of my only pleasure, when I
weaned her, about ten days ago.--I am however glad I conquered my
repugnance.--It was necessary it should be done soon, and I did not wish
to embitter the renewal of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off
till we met.--It was a painful exertion to me, and I thought it best to
throw this inquietude with the rest, into the sack that I would fain
throw over my shoulder.--I wished to endure it alone, in short--Yet,
after sending her to sleep in the next room for three or four nights, you
cannot think with what joy I took her back again to sleep in my bosom!
I suppose I shall find you, when I arrive, for I do not see any necessity
for your coming to me.--Pray inform Mr. ------, that I have his little
friend with me.--My wishing to oblige him, made me put myself to some
inconvenience----and delay my departure; which was irksome to me, who
have not quite as much philosophy, I would not for the world say
indifference, as you. God bless you!
Yours truly,
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XXXIX.
Brighthelmstone, Saturday, April 11.
HERE we are, my love, and mean to set out early in the morning; and, if I
can find you, I hope to dine with you to-morrow.--I shall drive to
------'s hotel, where ------ tells me you have been--and, if you have
left it, I hope you will take care to be there to receive us.
I have brought with me Mr. ----'s little friend, and a girl whom I like
to take care of our little darling--not on the way, for that fell to my
share.--But why do I write about trifles?--or any thing?--Are we not to
meet soon?--What does your heart say!
Yours truly
* * * *
I have weaned my ------, and she is now eating away at the white bread.
* * * * *
LETTER XL.
London, Friday, May 22.
I HAVE just received your affectionate letter, and am distressed to think
that I have added to your embarrassments at this troublesome juncture,
when the exertion of all the faculties of your mind appears to be
necessary, to extricate you out of your pecuniary difficulties. I suppose
it was something relative to the circumstance you have mentioned, which
made ------ request to see me to-day, to _converse about a matter of
great importance_. Be that as it may, his letter (such is the state of my
spirits) inconceivably alarmed me, and rendered the last night as
distressing, as the two former had been.
I have laboured to calm my mind since you left me--Still I find that
tranquillity is not to be obtained by exertion; it is a feeling so
different from the resignation of despair!--I am however no longer angry
with you--nor will I ever utter another complaint--there are arguments
which convince the reason, whilst they carry death to the heart.--We have
had too many cruel explanations, that not only cloud every future
prospect; but embitter the remembrances which alone give life to
affection.--Let the subject never be revived!
It seems to me that I have not only lost the hope, but the power of being
happy.--Every emotion is now sharpened by anguish.--My soul has been
shook, and my tone of feelings destroyed.--I have gone out--and sought
for dissipation, if not amusement, merely to fatigue still more, I find,
my irritable nerves----
My friend--my dear friend--examine yourself well--I am out of the
question; for, alas! I am nothing--and discover what you wish to do--what
will render you most comfortable--or, to be more explicit--whether you
desire to live with me, or part for ever? When you can once ascertain it,
tell me frankly, I conjure you!--for, believe me, I have very
involuntarily interrupted your peace.
I shall expect you to dinner on Monday, and will endeavour to assume a
cheerful face to greet you--at any rate I will avoid conversations,
which only tend to harrass your feelings, because I am most
affectionately yours,
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XLI.
Wednesday.
I INCLOSE you the letter, which you desired me to forward, and I am
tempted very laconically to wish you a good morning--not because I am
angry, or have nothing to say; but to keep down a wounded spirit.--I
shall make every effort to calm my mind--yet a strong conviction seems to
whirl round in the very centre of my brain, which, like the fiat of
fate, emphatically assures me, that grief has a firm hold of my heart.
God bless you!
Yours sincerely
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XLII.
--, Wednesday, Two o'Clock.
WE arrived here about an hour ago. I am extremely fatigued with the
child, who would not rest quiet with any body but me, during the
night--and now we are here in a comfortless, damp room, in a sort of a
tomb-like house. This however I shall quickly remedy, for, when I have
finished this letter, (which I must do immediately, because the post goes
out early), I shall sally forth, and enquire about a vessel and an inn.
I will not distress you by talking of the depression of my spirits, or
the struggle I had to keep alive my dying heart.--It is even now too full
to allow me to write with composure.--*****,--dear *****, --am I always
to be tossed about thus?--shall I never find an asylum to rest
_contented_ in? How can you love to fly about continually--dropping down,
as it were, in a new world--cold and strange!--every other day? Why do
you not attach those tender emotions round the idea of home, which even
now dim my eyes?--This alone is affection--every thing else is only
humanity, electrified by sympathy.
I will write to you again to-morrow, when I know how long I am to be
detained--and hope to get a letter quickly from you, to cheer yours
sincerely and affectionately
* * * *
------ is playing near me in high spirits. She was so pleased with the
noise of the mail-horn, she has been continually imitating it.----Adieu!
* * * * *
LETTER XLIII.
Thursday.
A LADY has just sent to offer to take me to ------. I have then only a
moment to exclaim against the vague manner in which people give
information -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
But why talk of inconveniences, which are in fact trifling, when compared
with the sinking of the heart I have felt! I did not intend to touch this
painful string--God bless you!
Yours truly,
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XLIV.
Friday, June 12.
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.
* * * * *
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[133-A].
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
* * * *
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. One more adieu!
* * * * *
LETTER XLV.
Sunday, June 14.
I RATHER expected to hear from you to-day--I wish you would not fail to
write to me for a little time, because I am not quite well--Whether I
have any good sleep or not, I wake in the morning in violent fits of
trembling--and, in spite of all my efforts, the child--every
thing--fatigues me, in which I seek for solace or amusement.
Mr. ---- forced on me a letter to a physician of this place; it was
fortunate, for I should otherwise have had some difficulty to obtain the
necessary information. His wife is a pretty woman (I can admire, you
know, a pretty woman, when I am alone) and he an intelligent and rather
interesting man.--They have behaved to me with great hospitality; and
poor ------ was never so happy in her life, as amongst their young brood.
They took me in their carriage to ------, and I ran over my favourite
walks, with a vivacity that would have astonished you.--The town did not
please me quite so well as formerly--It appeared so diminutive; and, when
I found that many of the inhabitants had lived in the same houses ever
since I left it, I could not help wondering how they could thus have
vegetated, whilst I was running over a world of sorrow, snatching at
pleasure, and throwing off prejudices. The place where I at present am,
is much improved; but it is astonishing what strides aristocracy and
fanaticism have made, since I resided in this country.
The wind does not appear inclined to change, so I am still forced to
linger--When do you think that you shall be able to set out for France? I
do not entirely like the aspect of your affairs, and still less your
connections on either side of the water. Often do I sigh, when I think of
your entanglements in business, and your extreme restlessness of
mind.--Even now I am almost afraid to ask you, whether the pleasure of
being free, does not over-balance the pain you felt at parting with me?
Sometimes I indulge the hope that you will feel me necessary to you--or
why should we meet again?--but, the moment after, despair damps my rising
spirits, aggravated by the emotions of tenderness, which ought to soften
the cares of life.----God bless you!
Yours sincerely and affectionately
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XLVI.
June 15.