very particular in your account of all your affairs--let our confidence,
my dear, be unbounded.--The last time we were separated, was a separation
indeed on your part--Now you have acted more ingenuously, let the most
affectionate interchange of sentiments fill up the aching void of
disappointment. I almost dread that your plans will prove abortive--yet
should the most unlucky turn send you home to us, convinced that a true
friend is a treasure, I should not much mind having to struggle with the
world again. Accuse me not of pride--yet sometimes, when nature has
opened my heart to its author, I have wondered that you did not set a
higher value on my heart.
Receive a kiss from ------, I was going to add, if you will not take one
from me, and believe me yours
Sincerely
* * * *
The wind still continues in the same quarter.
* * * * *
LETTER XLVII.
Tuesday Morning.
THE captain has just sent to inform me, that I must be on board in the
course of a few hours.--I wished to have stayed till to-morrow. It would
have been a comfort to me to have received another letter from
you--Should one arrive, it will be sent after me.
My spirits are agitated, I scarcely know why----The quitting England
seems to be a fresh parting.--Surely you will not forget me.--A thousand
weak forebodings assault my soul, and the state of my health renders me
sensible to every thing. It is surprising that in London, in a continual
conflict of mind, I was still growing better--whilst here, bowed down by
the despotic hand of fate, forced into resignation by despair, I seem to
be fading away--perishing beneath a cruel blight, that withers up all my
faculties.
The child is perfectly well. My hand seems unwilling to add adieu! I know
not why this inexpressible sadness has taken possession of me.--It is not
a presentiment of ill. Yet, having been so perpetually the sport of
disappointment,--having a heart that has been as it were a mark for
misery, I dread to meet wretchedness in some new shape.--Well, let it
come--I care not!--what have I to dread, who have so little to hope for!
God bless you--I am most affectionately and sincerely yours
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XLVIII.
Wednesday Morning.
I WAS hurried on board yesterday about three o'clock, the wind having
changed. But before evening it veered round to the old point; and here we
are, in the midst of mists and water, only taking advantage of the tide
to advance a few miles.
You will scarcely suppose that I left the town with reluctance--yet it
was even so--for I wished to receive another letter from you, and I felt
pain at parting, for ever perhaps, from the amiable family, who had
treated me with so much hospitality and kindness. They will probably send
me your letter, if it arrives this morning; for here we are likely to
remain, I am afraid to think how long.
The vessel is very commodious, and the captain a civil, open-hearted kind
of man. There being no other passengers, I have the cabin to myself,
which is pleasant; and I have brought a few books with me to beguile
weariness; but I seem inclined, rather to employ the dead moments of
suspence in writing some effusions, than in reading.
What are you about? How are your affairs going on? It may be a long time
before you answer these questions. My dear friend, my heart sinks within
me!--Why am I forced thus to struggle continually with my affections and
feelings?--Ah! why are those affections and feelings the source of so
much misery, when they seem to have been given to vivify my heart, and
extend my usefulness! But I must not dwell on this subject.--Will you not
endeavour to cherish all the affection you can for me? What am I
saying?--Rather forget me, if you can--if other gratifications are dearer
to you.--How is every remembrance of mine embittered by disappointment?
What a world is this!--They only seem happy, who never look beyond
sensual or artificial enjoyments.--Adieu!
------ begins to play with the cabin-boy, and is as gay as a lark.--I
will labour to be tranquil; and am in every mood,
Yours sincerely
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER XLIX.
Thursday.
HERE I am still--and I have just received your letter of Monday by the
pilot, who promised to bring it to me, if we were detained, as he
expected, by the wind.--It is indeed wearisome to be thus tossed about
without going forward.--I have a violent head-ache--yet I am obliged to
take care of the child, who is a little tormented by her teeth, because
------ is unable to do any thing, she is rendered so sick by the motion
of the ship, as we ride at anchor.
These are however trifling inconveniences, compared with anguish of
mind--compared with the sinking of a broken heart.--To tell you the
truth, I never suffered in my life so much from depression of
spirits--from despair.--I do not sleep--or, if I close my eyes, it is to
have the most terrifying dreams, in which I often meet you with different
casts of countenance.
I will not, my dear ------, torment you by dwelling on my sufferings--and
will use all my efforts to calm my mind, instead of deadening it--at
present it is most painfully active. I find I am not equal to these
continual struggles--yet your letter this morning has afforded me some
comfort--and I will try to revive hope. One thing let me tell you--when
we meet again--surely we are to meet!--it must be to part no more. I mean
not to have seas between us--it is more than I can support.
The pilot is hurrying me--God bless you.
In spite of the commodiousness of the vessel, every thing here would
disgust my senses, had I nothing else to think of--"When the mind's free,
the body's delicate;"--mine has been too much hurt to regard trifles.
Yours most truly
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER L.
Saturday.
THIS is the fifth dreary day I have been imprisoned by the wind, with
every outward object to disgust the senses, and unable to banish the
remembrances that sadden my heart.
How am I altered by disappointment!--When going to ----, ten years ago,
the elasticity of my mind was sufficient to ward off weariness--and the
imagination still could dip her brush in the rainbow of fancy, and sketch
futurity in smiling colours. Now I am going towards the North in search
of sunbeams!--Will any ever warm this desolated heart? All nature seems
to frown--or rather mourn with me.--Every thing is cold--cold as my
expectations! Before I left the shore, tormented, as I now am, by these
North east _chillers_, I could not help exclaiming--Give me, gracious
Heaven! at least, genial weather, if I am never to meet the genial
affection that still warms this agitated bosom--compelling life to linger
there.
I am now going on shore with the captain, though the weather be rough,
to seek for milk, &c. at a little village, and to take a walk--after
which I hope to sleep--for, confined here, surrounded by disagreeable
smells, I have lost the little appetite I had; and I lie awake, till
thinking almost drives me to the brink of madness--only to the brink, for
I never forget, even in the feverish slumbers I sometimes fall into, the
misery I am labouring to blunt the the sense of, by every exertion in my
power.
Poor ------ still continues sick, and ------ grows weary when the weather
will not allow her to remain on deck.
I hope this will be the last letter I shall write from England to
you--are you not tired of this lingering adieu?
Yours truly
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER LI.
Sunday Morning.
THE captain last night, after I had written my letter to you intended to
be left at a little village, offered to go to ---- to pass to-day. We had
a troublesome sail--and now I must hurry on board again, for the wind has
changed.
I half expected to find a letter from you here. Had you written one
haphazard, it would have been kind and considerate--you might have known,
had you thought, that the wind would not permit me to depart. These are
attentions, more grateful to the heart than offers of service--But why
do I foolishly continue to look for them?
Adieu! adieu! My friend--your friendship is very cold--you see I am
hurt.--God bless you! I may perhaps be, some time or other, independent
in every sense of the word--Ah! there is but one sense of it of
consequence. I will break or bend this weak heart--yet even now it is
full.
Yours sincerely
* * * *
The child is well; I did not leave her on board.
* * * * *
LETTER LII.
June 27, Saturday.
I ARRIVED in ------ this afternoon, after vainly attempting to land at
----. I have now but a moment, before the post goes out, to inform you we
have got here; though not without considerable difficulty, for we were
set ashore in a boat above twenty miles below.
What I suffered in the vessel I will not now descant upon--nor mention
the pleasure I received from the sight of the rocky coast.--This morning
however, walking to join the carriage that was to transport us to this
place, I fell, without any previous warning, senseless on the rocks--and
how I escaped with life I can scarcely guess. I was in a stupour for a
quarter of an hour; the suffusion of blood at last restored me to my
senses--the contusion is great, and my brain confused. The child is well.
Twenty miles ride in the rain, after my accident, has sufficiently
deranged me--and here I could not get a fire to warm me, or any thing
warm to eat; the inns are mere stables--I must nevertheless go to bed.
For God's sake, let me hear from you immediately, my friend! I am not
well and yet you see I cannot die.
Yours sincerely
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER LIII.
June 29.
I WROTE to you by the last post, to inform you of my arrival; and I
believe I alluded to the extreme fatigue I endured on ship-board, owing
to ------'s illness, and the roughness of the weather--I likewise
mentioned to you my fall, the effects of which I still feel, though I do
not think it will have any serious consequences.
------ will go with me, if I find it necessary to go to ------. The inns
here are so bad, I was forced to accept of an apartment in his house. I
am overwhelmed with civilities on all sides, and fatigued with the
endeavours to amuse me, from which I cannot escape.
My friend--my friend, I am not well--a deadly weight of sorrow lies
heavily on my heart. I am again tossed on the troubled billows of life;
and obliged to cope with difficulties, without being buoyed up by the
hopes that alone render them bearable. "How flat, dull, and
unprofitable," appears to me all the bustle into which I see people here
so eagerly enter! I long every night to go to bed, to hide my melancholy
face in my pillow; but there is a canker-worm in my bosom that never
sleeps.
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER LIV.
July 1.
I LABOUR in vain to calm my mind--my soul has been overwhelmed by sorrow
and disappointment. Every thing fatigues me--this is a life that cannot
last long. It is you who must determine with respect to futurity--and,
when you have, I will act accordingly--I mean, we must either resolve to
live together, or part for ever, I cannot bear these continual
struggles--But I wish you to examine carefully your own heart and mind;
and, if you perceive the least chance of being happier without me than
with me, or if your inclination leans capriciously to that side, do not
dissemble; but tell me frankly that you will never see me more. I will
then adopt the plan I mentioned to you--for we must either live together,
or I will be entirely independent.
My heart is so oppressed, I cannot write with precision--You know however
that what I so imperfectly express, are not the crude sentiments of the
moment--You can only contribute to my comfort (it is the consolation I am
in need of) by being with me--and, if the tenderest friendship is of any
value, why will you not look to me for a degree of satisfaction that
heartless affections cannot bestow?
Tell me then, will you determine to meet me at Basle?--I shall, I should
imagine, be at ------ before the close of August; and, after you settle
your affairs at Paris, could we not meet there?
God bless you!
Yours truly
* * * *
Poor ------ has suffered during the journey with her teeth.
* * * * *
LETTER LV.
July 3.
THERE was a gloominess diffused through your last letter, the impression
of which still rests on my mind--though, recollecting how quickly you
throw off the forcible feelings of the moment, I flatter myself it has
long since given place to your usual cheerfulness.
Believe me (and my eyes fill with tears of tenderness as I assure you)
there is nothing I would not endure in the way of privation, rather than
disturb your tranquillity.--If I am fated to be unhappy, I will labour to
hide my sorrows in my own bosom; and you shall always find me a faithful,
affectionate friend.
I grow more and more attached to my little girl--and I cherish this
affection without fear, because it must be a long time before it can
become bitterness of soul.--She is an interesting creature.--On
ship-board, how often as I gazed at the sea, have I longed to bury my
troubled bosom in the less troubled deep; asserting with Brutus, "that
the virtue I had followed too far, was merely an empty name!" and
nothing but the sight of her--her playful smiles, which seemed to cling
and twine round my heart--could have stopped me.
What peculiar misery has fallen to my share! To act up to my principles,
I have laid the strictest restraint on my very thoughts--yes; not to
sully the delicacy of my feelings, I have reined in my imagination; and
started with affright from every sensation, (I allude to ----) that
stealing with balmy sweetness into my soul, led me to scent from afar the
fragrance of reviving nature.
My friend, I have dearly paid for one conviction.--Love, in some minds,
is an affair of sentiment, arising from the same delicacy of perception
(or taste) as renders them alive to the beauties of nature, poetry, &c,
alive to the charms of those evanescent graces that are, as it were,
impalpable--they must be felt, they cannot be described.
Love is a want of my heart. I have examined myself lately with more care
than formerly, and find, that to deaden is not to calm the mind--Aiming
at tranquillity, I have almost destroyed all the energy of my
soul--almost rooted out what renders it estimable--Yes, I have damped
that enthusiasm of character, which converts the grossest materials into
a fuel, that imperceptibly feeds hopes, which aspire above common
enjoyment. Despair, since the birth of my child, has rendered me
stupid--soul and body seemed to be fading away before the withering touch
of disappointment.
I am now endeavouring to recover myself--and such is the elasticity of my
constitution, and the purity of the atmosphere here, that health unsought
for, begins to reanimate my countenance.
I have the sincerest esteem and affection for you--but the desire of
regaining peace, (do you understand me?) has made me forget the respect
due to my own emotions--sacred emotions, that are the sure harbingers of
the delights I was formed to enjoy--and shall enjoy, for nothing can
extinguish the heavenly spark.
Still, when we meet again, I will not torment you, I promise you. I blush
when I recollect my former conduct--and will not in future confound
myself with the beings whom I feel to be my inferiors.--I will listen to
delicacy, or pride.
* * * * *
LETTER LVI.
July 4.
I HOPE to hear from you by to-morrow's mail. My dearest friend! I cannot
tear my affections from you--and, though every remembrance stings me to
the soul, I think of you, till I make allowance for the very defects of
character, that have given such a cruel stab to my peace.
Still however I am more alive, than you have seen me for a long, long
time. I have a degree of vivacity, even in my grief, which is preferable
to the benumbing stupour that, for the last year, has frozen up all my
faculties.--Perhaps this change is more owing to returning health, than
to the vigour of my reason--for, in spite of sadness (and surely I have
had my share), the purity of this air, and the being continually out in
it, for I sleep in the country every night, has made an alteration in my
appearance that really surprises me.--The rosy fingers of health already
streak my cheeks--and I have seen a _physical_ life in my eyes, after I
have been climbing the rocks, that resembled the fond, credulous hopes of
youth.
With what a cruel sigh have I recollected that I had forgotten to
hope!--Reason, or rather experience, does not thus cruelly damp poor
------'s pleasures; she plays all day in the garden with ------'s
children, and makes friends for herself.
Do not tell me, that you are happier without us--Will you not come to us
in Switzerland? Ah, why do not you love us with more sentiment?--why are
you a creature of such sympathy, that the warmth of your feelings, or
rather quickness of your senses, hardens your heart? It is my misfortune,
that my imagination is perpetually shading your defects, and lending you
charms, whilst the grossness of your senses makes you (call me not vain)
overlook graces in me, that only dignity of mind, and the sensibility of
an expanded heart can give.--God bless you! Adieu.
* * * * *
LETTER LVII.
July 7.
I COULD not help feeling extremely mortified last post, at not receiving
a letter from you. My being at ------was but a chance, and you might have
hazarded it; and would a year ago.
I shall not however complain--There are misfortunes so great, as to
silence the usual expressions of sorrow--Believe me, there is such a
thing as a broken heart! There are characters whose very energy preys
upon them; and who, ever inclined to cherish by reflection some passion,
cannot rest satisfied with the common comforts of life. I have
endeavoured to fly from myself, and launched into all the dissipation
possible here, only to feel keener anguish, when alone with my child.
Still, could any thing please me--had not disappointment cut me off from
life, this romantic country, these fine evenings, would interest me.--My
God! can any thing? and am I ever to feel alive only to painful
sensations?--But it cannot--it shall not last long.
The post is again arrived; I have sent to seek for letters, only to be
wounded to the soul by a negative.--My brain seems on fire, I must go
into the air.
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER LVIII.
July 14.
I AM now on my journey to ------. I felt more at leaving my child, than I
thought I should--and, whilst at night I imagined every instant that I
heard the half-formed sounds of her voice,--I asked myself how I could
think of parting with her for ever, of leaving her thus helpless?
Poor lamb! It may run very well in a tale, that "God will temper the
winds to the shorn lamb!" but how can I expect that she will be shielded,
when my naked bosom has had to brave continually the pitiless storm?
Yes; I could add, with poor Lear--What is the war of elements to the
pangs of disappointed affection, and the horror arising from a discovery
of a breach of confidence, that snaps every social tie!
All is not right somewhere!--When you first knew me, I was not thus lost.
I could still confide--for I opened my heart to you--of this only comfort
you have deprived me, whilst my happiness, you tell me, was your first
object. Strange want of judgment!
I will not complain; but, from the soundness of your understanding, I am
convinced, if you give yourself leave to reflect, you will also feel,
that your conduct to me, so far from being generous, has not been
just.--I mean not to allude to factitious principles of morality; but to
the simple basis of all rectitude.--However I did not intend to
argue--Your not writing is cruel--and my reason is perhaps disturbed by
constant wretchedness.
Poor ------ would fain have accompanied me, out of tenderness; for my
fainting, or rather convulsion, when I landed, and my sudden changes of
countenance since, have alarmed her so much, that she is perpetually
afraid of some accident--But it would have injured the child this warm
season, as she is cutting her teeth.
I hear not of your having written to me at ----. Very well! Act as you
please--there is nothing I fear or care for! When I see whether I can, or
cannot obtain the money I am come here about, I will not trouble you with
letters to which you do not reply.
* * * * *
LETTER LIX.
July 18.
I AM here in ----, separated from my child--and here I must remain a
month at least, or I might as well never have come. -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
I have begun -------- which will, I hope, discharge all my obligations of
a pecuniary kind.--I am lowered in my own eyes, on account of my not
having done it sooner.
I shall make no further comments on your silence. God bless you!
* * * *
* * * * *
LETTER LX.
July 30.
I HAVE just received two of your letters, dated the 26th and 30th of
June; and you must have received several from me, informing you of my
detention, and how much I was hurt by your silence.
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
Write to me then, my friend, and write explicitly. I have suffered, God
knows, since I left you. Ah! you have never felt this kind of sickness of
heart!--My mind however is at present painfully active, and the sympathy
I feel almost rises to agony. But this is not a subject of complaint, it
has afforded me pleasure,--and reflected pleasure is all I have to hope
for--if a spark of hope be yet alive in my forlorn bosom.
I will try to write with a degree of composure. I wish for us to live
together, because I want you to acquire an habitual tenderness for my
poor girl. I cannot bear to think of leaving her alone in the world, or
that she should only be protected by your sense of duty. Next to
preserving her, my most earnest wish is not to disturb your peace. I have
nothing to expect, and little to fear, in life--There are wounds that can
never be healed--but they may be allowed to fester in silence without
wincing.
When we meet again, you shall be convinced that I have more resolution
than you give me credit for. I will not torment you. If I am destined
always to be disappointed and unhappy, I will conceal the anguish I
cannot dissipate; and the tightened cord of life or reason will at last
snap, and set me free.
Yes; I shall be happy--This heart is worthy of the bliss its feelings
anticipate--and I cannot even persuade myself, wretched as they have made
me, that my principles and sentiments are not founded in nature and
truth. But to have done with these subjects.
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- -- --
I have been seriously employed in this way since I came to ----; yet I
never was so much in the air.--I walk, I ride on horseback--row, bathe,
and even sleep in the fields; my health is consequently improved. The
child, ------informs me, is well. I long to be with her.
Write to me immediately--were I only to think of myself, I could wish you
to return to me, poor, with the simplicity of character, part of which
you seem lately to have lost, that first attached to you.
Yours most affectionately
* * * * * * * * *
I have been subscribing other letters--so I mechanically did the same to
yours.
* * * * *
LETTER LXI.
August 5.
EMPLOYMENT and exercise have been of great service to me; and I have
entirely recovered the strength and activity I lost during the time of my
nursing. I have seldom been in better health; and my mind, though
trembling to the touch of anguish, is calmer--yet still the same.--I
have, it is true, enjoyed some tranquillity, and more happiness here,
than for a long--long time past.--(I say happiness, for I can give no
other appellation to the exquisite delight this wild country and fine
summer have afforded me.)--Still, on examining my heart, I find that it
is so constituted, I cannot live without some particular affection--I am
afraid not without a passion--and I feel the want of it more in society,
than in solitude--
-- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
-- -- -- -- -- --
Writing to you, whenever an affectionate epithet occurs--my eyes fill
with tears, and my trembling hand stops--you may then depend on my
resolution, when with you. If I am doomed to be unhappy, I will confine
my anguish in my own bosom--tenderness, rather than passion, has made me
sometimes overlook delicacy--the same tenderness will in future restrain
me. God bless you!
* * * * *
LETTER LXII.
August 7.
AIR, exercise, and bathing, have restored me to health, braced my
muscles, and covered my ribs, even whilst I have recovered my former
activity.--I cannot tell you that my mind is calm, though I have snatched
some moments of exquisite delight, wandering through the woods, and
resting on the rocks.